The Knight's Mare
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: Camelot is in danger once more. No one is spared from the mysterious nightmares plaguing their sleep and driving them mad, and Merlin and Arthur must stop the curse before the city tears itself apart in fear. No slash. Sequel to Frostbitten.
1. The Knight's Challenge

**So this is the sequel to my other story, Frostbitten. I suggest you read that one first, for there's a rather important matter that effects this one. But it's up to you.**

**I don't own Merlin—****_no one_**** owns Merlin. That's like owning Chuck Norris: ain't possible ;)**

**Feel free to scold me. Tell me if I need to keep myself at my PC or order me to quite writing and take up tiddlywinks.**

**Enjoy The Knight's Mare!**

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><p>~1~ <span>The Knight's Challenge<span>

"Come on, Merlin! Keep up!"

Arthur Pendragon couldn't help but laugh with exhilaration as his newest, proudest horse galloped down the forest trail, bent over the beast's neck, his hair plastered back in the wind.

Shaking his head, Merlin sighed, and glanced at the ominous thunderhead building up behind them. He held Balinor's reins in check for a moment, but then his horse, too, was off, hard on the heels of Arthur's. Camelot was far from the prince's favourite hunting valley, but they would try to beat the rain anyway.

For several minutes, Merlin only saw Arthur's cloak flapping around corners and the red tail of his horse. He knew that once they stopped, he would hear nothing but the prince's gloats, as usual...but something this time made Merlin kick his steed faster, and was pleased to see that they began to catch up. Sensing the race, Balinor put on another burst of speed, as though determined to beat the superior horse.

Arthur was almost as surprised as Merlin when the servant was neck to flank, then neck to barrel, and finally level. They raced at that reckless pace until both horses were grunting in protest and their paces lagged. Both riders, laughing with adrenalin, gently slowed the beasts down to a canter, a trot, and then a walk. All four of them breathed heavily.

Arthur glanced at Merlin, eyebrow raised, showing a rarely seen sign that he was impressed. "Wow, you actually kept up. Right on you, Merlin." When the warlock grinned, proud of himself, Arthur's expression vanished. "_Now_ you're officially a man."

The prince ignored Merlin's look of indignant exasperation.

Despite the fast approaching storm, the pair was content to walk side by side, regaining their breath.

"Magnificent creature, isn't he?" Arthur was patting his roan horse on the neck.

Merlin nodded in agreement. "King Olaf spared no expense."

Arthur snorted, and grimaced. "I very much doubt it was Olaf's idea."

The warlock pretended to think for a moment, and said, mockingly sweet, "The Lady Vivian?"

Arthur went very red in the face and turned away, feigning admiration of the scenery.

Balinor whinnied as a fox scampered across the path, barking. Brushing his neck and whispering cool words, Merlin soothed the chestnut horse. Arthur watched him.

"It doesn't look it, but you have a good horse there. What is he called?"

"Balinor."

Arthur blinked. "Is there a reason why you named him after the deceased Dragonlord?"

_Because he was my father_. "He was the last of a noble race. His name should be remembered."

"So you named a _horse_ after him."

Merlin frowned, looking insulted. "It was one of _your_ horses. You gave it to me, can't you recall? Last—"

"Hold."

The abrupt word silenced the warlock in a heartbeat, and they pulled the horses to a stop. At the end of the road, not thirty paces away, was a man in armour astride a horse of steel coat. A lance stabbed the darkening sky. His mantel was black with a silver, inverted pentagram—neither of the riders recognized it. The knight was silent and still. Not his even his horse moved.

The shock of the appearance and lack of movement from the knight kept Arthur quiet, but only for a moment. "Who goes there?" he called.

"Arthur Pendragon." The voice was deep and foreboding.

Merlin frowned. "Um, I'm pretty sure that isn't you."

"_Idiot!_ He's addressing me."

The dark knight rested his lance in the cradle of his saddle, then reached over with one hand and pulled off a gauntlet. He tossed it underhand at the prince, but said not a word as the metal glove hit the road.

"A challenge," Merlin muttered uneasily.

Face stern, Arthur kneed his horse onward until he was alined with the gauntlet.

"Whoa, Arthur, wait. Maybe this isn't such a good—" But the Pendragon had already dismounted and picked up the hand piece.

"I accept your challenge, knight. Name the place, time, and conditions."

"Here. Now. Joust."

If the prince was surprised, he didn't reveal it. If he was nervous of the ominous voice echoing from the slats of the dark knight's helmet, he refused to show it. Merlin _was_ surprised and nervous, however.

"Something isn't right about him, Arthur. Can't you tell—?"

"_Silence_, Merlin!" Arthur snapped impatiently. Then he called to the challenger. "I accept the conditions, sir knight, but I lack a lance."

The warrior said nothing, but turned his head towards the trees. Arthur followed his gaze to see a lance leaning against a trunk. Beside it was a shield. The prince couldn't help but shiver lightly. It was as though the dark knight had been waiting for him. Which he probably had.

Dismounting, Arthur grabbed the spear and hefted it, feeling its weight and balance. As he did so, the knight snorted with laughter, contemptuous. Arthur realized that it may have been..._proper_ to let Merlin take it to him rather than fetching it himself. It was clear, after all, who was lord and who was servant in the duo.

"Merlin," he called, tearing his gaze from the knight, "come take these."

The manservant leaped down from his saddle and threw Balinor's reins onto a bush, before jogging over to hold the lance and shield. "You don't have to, you know."

"Yes, I _do_," Arthur insisted, remounting the roan. "I've accepted and won't be seen as a coward. Follow me." He turned the beast about and started walking to the bend of the road, leaving a large gap between him and the knight.

After the prince turned around, Merlin passed him the shield. "Being smart is just as important as being brave."

"Yes, and seeing as you can't be either, I suggest you shut up." Arthur snatched away the lance and hoisted it up to show his readiness.

"You're not even wearing proper armour!"

"That's enough!" With that, Arthur dug his heals into his horse's sides and charged.

"Wait—!" But the roan kicked up dust as the prince galloped down the road towards his challenger, a challenger who was already eating up most of the distance between them. "You _prat!_"

The gap quickly diminished under the horses' hooves, bringing the warriors ever closer. Arthur levelled his lance, and his fist clenched around the shield. His heart pounded in sync with his horse's strides. The rest of the world blurred as his eyes focused only on his enemy, and he gritted his teeth. As the knight's grey steed screamed, his own roan hesitated, throwing his aim off—

The next moment, Arthur felt a great jarring in his arm, and then he was flying through the air with a rain of splinters. His whole body jarred as he flipped back over the saddle and landed on his upper back. He couldn't withhold a cry of pain as he crashed and rolled once onto his front. A throbbing ache indicated that he was struck in the chest. His shield had taken most of the blow, impacted the full power of the charge, but it still _hurt._

Not so much as the fact of his failure, however. It was the first thought that ran through his mind when his body hit the dust: defeat.

Face down on the road, the prince waited for his arms to stop shaking before forcing himself to his knees, eyes closed.

"Sir knight, I—" His eyes opened to see his challenger lying in the dirt like he was. The knight sat up and glanced down at a dent in his armour, before turning his gaze on the prince. Laughter echoed from the tinted helmet, cold and dark. They had knocked each other from the saddle. The challenge was not yet over.

Arthur spun on his heels and stood, drawing his sword. The other followed suit, his blade long and intimidating. The warriors started to circle each other, feet brushing through splinters of lance. Neither man blinked, and in a split second, their swords were whirling through the air at impossible speeds.

Arthur felt his arm shake under the blows of the knight. The man was stronger than he looked – and faster. The prince was parrying more than attacking, and this unnerved him. But he didn't let that stop him.

Parry—parry—dodge—strike! Parry—thrust—sweep—dodge—

Arthur met the enemy blow for blow, never letting his concentration slip. His eyes held the dark slats of the knight's helmet. _Watch the eyes, not the blade: swords lie, eyes don't,_ is what every sword master knows and teaches if he was worth his mettle. The problem was, he couldn't _see_ his opponent's eyes. Instinct and two decades of practice must prevail here—

His vision went red.

—But they did not.

The pain drove deep into his thigh, and a soundless scream escaped his lips. And then an armoured fist pounded his ribs, and he cringed away, winded.

Vaguely, he heard someone yell his name, but Arthur kept his concentration steady, swallowing the pain and injured pride. He raised his unharmed leg and kicked the dark knight in the naval. As the enemy stepped back to regain his balance, Arthur took the opportunity to gather his bearings and reach open ground. He then brought the attack to his opponent.

The knight easily parried the first swing, not even appearing startled by the ferocity of the attack. Irked, Arthur pressed on regardless, feeling the smooth flow of his arm being one with the sword as it sliced through the air.

_Every man has his breaking point. I _will_ find his._

But with every attack, he became more and more discouraged. It was time to change tactics.

He shoved down the brute strength and concentrated on speed and agility. The switch of techniques threw the dark knight off for a few seconds, but then he followed suit. Again a blossom of unease filled Arthur's chest.

Then an idea sprung unexpectedly into his head. He had created a special move that he had never shown anyone else, nor attempted on a real opponent. Clearly, he saw the move in his mind's eye, and waited for the knight to perform the cue to begin.

_Come on_, he thought, ducking beneath a swing. _Come on—now!_

Endless hours of practice paid off as the dark knight was taken by surprise and at last was affected by the alteration. With a few lightning strikes and a swooping leg, Arthur knocked his opponent to the ground.

The knight lay there for a few moments, stunned. As he did so, the prince noticed the net attached to his belt. It looked like a net that spanned a whole river, and he wondered what it was used for—fishing didn't seem right, for whatever reason.

He had to jump straight up suddenly as the knight swung his blade at his feet. In a second, the challenger was back up and ready to fight. He laughed again, and the sound haunted the prince. He swallowed his uneasiness with a snarl.

"Let's finish this."

The next moments flew past in a blur, almost faster than the swords. With every other attack the knight aimed for Arthur's injured side, but the prince kept his leg back and safe. As part of his vigorous training, he learned to fight with injured limbs such as legs, and this wound wasn't proving _too_ much of an issue—

At least until it was punched.

As stars flashed through his vision, Arthur fell sideways, but automatically curled up and somersaulted back to his feet. He was encouraged: the punch may have been a sign of desperation. He bit back his pain, and lunged.

The manoeuvre caught the knight off-guard, but Arthur was equally astonished when the prince's sword slipped past the challenger's defences and drove into his armoured stomach. Yanking his blade free, the prince dodged a clumsy counter attack and swung at the knight's shoulder. The sword glanced off the gardbrace but knocked the opponent back a step. Arthur held his excitement in check as he attacked again and again, the knight failing to properly deflect the prince's sword aside.

With a final upward angled swing, Arthur dazed the knight with a hit to the head and then disarmed him. The loose sword spun end over end and clattered to the road, useless. Mistily, the prince heard a whooping cheer from Merlin as the dark knight finally fell to one knee, head bowed in surrender. He did not act injured, or even tired.

Arthur, gasping for air and face beaded with sweat, lowered his sword in acceptance to the yield.

"Arthur Pendragon," toned the knight. "You have defeated me in a fair fight. What is mine is yours." He was giving the prince his sword, armour, horse, and very life with those words.

Twirling his blade about, Arthur sheathed it and turned away. "Keep it. I have no use for it."

"You insult me with your refusal, Arthur Pendragon."

The prince halted.

"It is an honour to be defeated by such a great lord and surrender mine own possessions to him. Take the horse, lord prince. Just the horse. Let me retain my honour."

**† † †**

"It's not bad beast," said Arthur thoughtfully, admiring the prized horse. The creature was a dapple-grey, with dark legs and face. It was a hand taller than his roan, and bulged muscle. It would make a magnificent war horse. "Not really my taste, but..."

Merlin wasn't listening. He was staring over his shoulder at the dark knight standing on the side of the road at attention, cloak gently waving in the wind. It was an eerie sight.

"—Quite spirited, too. I suppose we could...Merlin, are you listening?"

"Nope."

Arthur sighed, and then rubbed his leg, grimacing. It had been hastily bandaged; Merlin thought it better to have Gaius, the court physician, properly take care of it. "I really don't know why I put up with you, Merlin."

"...Because I'm loyal and dependable friend?"

"Mm, _nah_. You just make life interesting with you inapt prattle."

A moment later, the sky opened, and they became drenched.

Neither of them heard the low chuckle emit from the dark knight's helmet as they turned the bend and disappeared.

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><p><strong>What's with that mysterious knight, I wonder. *Cheshire Cat smile*<strong>


	2. So It Begins

**Hello! :D**

**Um...meh, just enjoy ;)**

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><p>~2~ <span>So It Begins<span>

The new grey horse received glances and whispers from all around. Arthur, pretending ignorance, proudly led it and his roan into the royal stables.

As Merlin, standing on a step in order to reach, began to haul the saddle off the steel horse, he noticed the inverted silver pentagram engraved in the leather.

"Arthur, do you recognize this insignia?"

The prince studied it, and then shrugged. "Probably from one of the coastal kingdoms; they mostly keep to themselves. Perhaps they have more horses like this. We should make contact with...Merlin?"

The warlock had froze, his hand pausing in its brushing of the horse's neck. He shuddered suddenly, and snatched his hand away as the beast tossed its head and stamped a hoof.

"What's with you?"

Merlin swallowed, and then forced a weak smile. "Nothing. Just cold, is all. And hungry. And—your leg! We must see Gaius."

"No. _I'll_ see Gaius. _You'll_ see to the horses." Arthur tossed a coarse brush at his manservant and began limping for the stable doors. "Mind you make sure the grey's stall is locked properly. I have a feeling it could knock over the door with ease and escape."

**† † †**

The hut was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding forest. One could only see it if they knew where to look – and the dark knight knew.

Pushing the small door wide, he stooped and entered the hut, before bowing to its inhabitant.

"You were successful, then?" asked Morgana, not turning around to greet her guest.

"My lady. Arthur Pendragon has fallen for your trap. The Mare is going to Camelot."

Morgana smiled, stroking the blue feather on her table lovingly. "Very good, my prince."

The Archon shifted. "My lady, at what time may I have the return of my Mare?"

"Soon, my dark avenger," replied Morgana, stifling the sudden blossom of rebellious unease emitting from the knight with a whisper and stroke of the Phoenix Feather. "Soon."

"...My lady."

**† † †**

"Have you decided what to call it?"

It was seven days later. The sun was warm on their backs and there wasn't a cloud to be seen. Merlin tightened the girths of Balinor and the steel-coloured horse. Arthur was finally capable—if not _allowed_—to ride as long as he didn't push himself too hard.

"No, not really," the prince replied, pulling on his riding gloves. "You have any ideas?"

Merlin looked thoughtful. "I was thinking 'Germanicus.'"

Arthur snorted. "What kind of a name is that?"

"A good one," the warlock replied, affronted.

"And male. This is a _mare_, Merlin."

"Oh. Right. Well, I don't hear _you_ coming up with any ideas."

"...How about 'Smokie?'"

Merlin pulled a face. "_Smokie_? You serious?" Suddenly, he couldn't suppress a yawn. Arthur glanced at him questionably.

"No sleep," he explained briefly, before yawning again. Arthur unwittingly did the same thing.

"Great, now you've got _me_ doing it," he growled. They both instantly became aware of the dark rings under each others' eyes.

"You've been having them, too, haven't you," said Merlin. It wasn't a question.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I don't know what you're talking about."

"...If you don't know what I'm talking about, how do you know it's ridiculous?"

Arthur glowered at him, and again shoved a fist in his mouth to halt a yawn.

"It's the nightmares," said Merlin, watching the prince carefully.

Arthur turned away. "Maybe."

"Gaius is searching for something to stop them."

"What for? A couple people with bad dreams don't need pampering."

"A couple, no. A whole kingdom, yes...Haven't you noticed?"

Arthur still refused to look at him. "Perhaps. It'll pass, I'm sure."

'Smokie' tossed her head and whinnied, raring to go. With Merlin's help, Arthur climbed into the saddle and rode from the courtyard.

**† † †**

That evening, Merlin took Balinor and the prince's mare to the royal stables. Fortunately for him, an acquaintance, George, owed him a favour, and helped him brush, feed, and water the two beasts. Merlin couldn't help but notice the bags under the stable hand's eyes.

As he untangled a knot from the grey's mane, a wave of uneasiness befell him, and he yanked his hands away. The horse grumbled and threw her head back, as though distressed.

Taint. Merlin felt taint swirling within the essence of the beast.

A second later, he dismissed the thought contemptuously. It was just a horse. He was tired, and the day had been long.

Even so, he glanced about, saw George getting fresh oats several paces away, and then laid a palm on the horse's hot, silky neck.

"_Monștrarę mihĭ._"

Beneath closed eyelids, irises flashed liquid gold. The magic uncoiled in his chest and reached out with him, only to flinch and retreat, choking. The horse screamed, enraged.

_Emrys!_

The warlock shrank fearfully as the grey reared, legs lashing out in fury. A hoof caught him in the chest, and pain blossomed as he fell to the ground, gasping.

"Merlin, watch out!"

Three stable hands leaped into action, forcing the mare back into her stall. The beast squealed and tossed her head, nostrils flared, as she became trapped in the cubicle.

George helped Merlin stand and felt for anything broken. The warlock grimaced as his hand passed over bruised ribs, just right of his heart.

"You were lucky," said George, letting him go when he realized that he wasn't going to fall over. "That kick could have been a lot worse. You should still have a physician look at that."

Merlin exited the stable, feeling lightheaded. Emrys. The horse had called him by his _vërum nσmί_, his true name: Emrys.

He snorted. That wasn't possible—he must have imagined it.

It—is—a—_horse_.

Still, he couldn't shake off the memory of the taint that had choked his own magic when he brushed the beast.

**† † †**

Gaius was the court physician and the closest person Merlin had to a father. He was also one of only three living people who knew of Merlin's natural abilities with magic. He was nodding to sleep where he sat before a large stack of old, musty volumes, but he woke with a start as Merlin entered the quarters.

"Arthur's been having nightmares as well, and George at the stables," yawned Merlin as he crashed into the nearest chair, exhausted. He gasped as a new wave of pain washed over him.

"Indeed," mumbled Gaius. He frowned. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I just saw George not four days ago, and he was fine then." He let his head loll back.

"Whatever _is_ happening, it's getting worse every night."

Merlin summoned enough energy to lift his head back up, worried. "You don't supposed it's magic?"

"Nightmares for a few people is entirely natural, but when it's the whole city..." Gaius looked at the warlock. "There can be no other explanation."

With an exasperated sigh, Merlin's head fell again. "Yay. Time to save Camelot—_again_."

**† † †**

The dark knight stood as still as death near the archway of his former prison. The inhuman traits of the Archon sent shivers down Morgana's spine, but she refused to let her uneasiness show.

She stood beside the pedestal in the centre of the pentagram carved into the cold stone courtyard. Around the star was a span of long-dead grass, and then the crumbling topless tower engulfed them all, throwing them into shadow. The dead sun's light could not reach the ground to warm the sorceress.

"When shall my brothers be free, my lady?" The sudden words emerging from the knight's helmet startled the witch.

Keeping a calm composure, Morgana fingered the wide-bladed dagger sitting on the pedestal. "Soon, my prince." She turned in a circle, looking into the four other lone-standing archways at the points of the pentagram. These were not empty, like the Knight's, like _Mėtû_'s. Every one of them held a transparent veil that wavered in a wind that didn't exist, and behind each veil stood a mounted Knight, standing as still and patient as their liberated brother. Only from inside the pentagram were they all visible; if standing outside and viewed from behind, the archways would appear empty.

Right from _Mėtû's_ ancient prison was _Halosĭs_, Conquest, on the horse of ivory. His bow remained strung and ready, sitting across the pommel. To the left of _Mėtû_ was _Caedeşqụe_ on his steed of fire. Bloodshed had his great sword strapped to his armoured shoulders. The Knight Famine was next, called _Fąmem_, and he had no weapon, because he had no need for one. His black beast was continually groaning with hunger, every bone of its body in sharp relief. Lastly, on the horse of pale green, was _Môrtęm_, the kin of Death. His scythe, taller than any man, never ceased to drip blood.

"Very soon." Morgana turned once more to Fear, to _Mėtû_. "Once Arthur Pendragon arrives with his men, as no doubt he will, all that will need to be done is the deed. And the Knights of the Apocalypse will once again rule this land."

Fear didn't react in any way. No holler of celebration, no grunt of triumph, not even a finger twitch of acknowledgement.

Morgana lifted her chin, which border-lined arrogance towards the ancient Archon, and left the pentagram. She entered the inner walls of the tower, shivering in the drafts emitting from the gaps in the stone, and climbed until she came to the pigeon coop. The tiny message on the roll of parchment from her pocket was soon strapped to one of the birds' legs, and then the pigeon was tossed into the air, to find its home in Camelot.

"Not long now, little brother," she hissed softly to the breeze.

**Φ**

_The fog was too thick to penetrate further than ten paces all around. The trees were thin and sickly, and reached out to him as if begging for aid. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched underfoot as he wandered aimlessly through the forgotten forest._

"Merlin..._"_

_The warlock turned towards the voice, but no one appeared._

"_Hello?"_

"Help me, Merlin..._"_

"_Freya? Is that you?"_

"Help me!_"_

_Merlin's deceased lover stepped out of the mist, blood seeping from a wound in her chest. She stumbled, and Merlin leaped forward to help her. He caught her before she fell, and held her up. Freya stared at him with dead, blaming eyes._

"Look at what you've done to me."_ The blood now squirted from her wound like a fountain. "_You've killed me..._"_

"_Freya—"_

_Blood started to seep from her nose, and her eyes, ears, mouth..._

"_No, it's not my fault—"_

"You've killed me, Merlin!_"_

"_No, Freya! Don't—!" But it wasn't Freya anymore. It was Morgana._

"_It isn't over, Merlin," she said, and thrust a dagger through his heart. "It's never over."_

**Φ**

"_Yaaaaahh_!"

_Crash!_

Tangled in his sheets, Merlin was trapped half off of his bed, arms pinned to his sides. Sweat drenched his face and body. Breathing heavily, he waited until his eyes adjusted to the near total darkness before freeing himself. He gingerly felt a bump on his head where it had hit the floor, before lying back down and wiping his cheeks. It wasn't only sweat that dampened his face.

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><p><strong>Ooooooo.<strong>

**;)**

**Rough translation from Latin (with added symbols to look cooler) :  
><strong>**_Monstrare mihi: _****Show me  
><strong>**_vërum nσmί: _****true name**

**And an approximately-legitimate pronounciation guide:  
><strong>**_Mėtû_**** : MEY-too**  
><strong><em>Caedeşqụe<em>**** : cay-DIS-queh**  
><strong><em>Halosĭs<em>**** : AH-low-cease**  
><strong><em>Fąmem<em>**** : FAH-mem  
><strong>**_Môrtęm_**** : MOR-tem**

**All right. I've just made a batch of snickerdoodle cookies, and I need someone to share them with *wink, nudge* But these are ****_magical_**** snickerdoodle cookies. Only those with the right knowledge, only those who have widened their interests with Merlin and Arthur and read other Arthurian tales can eat them. In this chapter there are two..."references," I suppose, to novels with those two whippersnappers. If you can tell me what they are, you get some of those delicious snickers :D**

**Here are the hints/guidelines:**

**1. Emrys is the Welsh form of Ambrosius. In what novel does an Ambrosius have significance to Merlin?**

**2. In a few novels of a series, Merlyn (spelled like that) had a noble black horse called Germanicus. What is this novel and/or series? (Does the name 'Britannicus' jog anyone's memory?)**

**There are a lot of cookies here. Hate to have to hog them all to myself...**


	3. No Sleep

***Sigh* No one knew the novels, eh? Guess I'll have to eat all the snickerdoodle cookies by myself...**

**;) Ah, here. Have some oatmeal cookies instead, because you're reading my story :D**

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><p>~3~ <span>No Sleep<span>

Arthur wasn't in bed when Merlin threw open the chamber's scarlet curtains, which was highly unusual.

"'Morning, sire," the warlock said sleepily, opening a second curtain and flooding the room with light. He winced and shut his sore eyes against the brightness, even though it was dulled by the overcast sky. It was raining, but lightly.

Arthur grunted from his chair at the table in reply, his own aching head resting in both hands. Obviously, he had had no decent sleep either, or else he would have said _something_, most likely an insult. The bed sheets were a real mess, indicating the prince's struggles with personal night demons as well.

Merlin set Arthur's breakfast before him, but it was ignored. The prince was pale, sickly even, and turned a faint green as the smell of eggs hit him. The nightmares had clearly been worse than ever before, to make him ill so. As he turned away, Merlin took the hint and pulled it to the other end of the table, where it will be forgotten. There was a loud clatter as he accidentally knocked over an empty goblet. Both he and the prince closed their eyes and grimaced.

"Idiot," Arthur snapped half-heartedly.

"Sorry, sire," Merlin winced, and brushed a fork with his sleeve. It fell to the floor with a small tinkle that might as well have been crashing pots and pans. Arthur jumped to his feet with barely-suppressed rage. Merlin quickly stepped away from the table before he caused any more damage.

Despite his curiosity, Merlin refrained from asking Arthur what his nightmares were as the prince paced before the hearth. He might get his head bitten off if he asked. But after several minutes of total silence, besides the rain and Arthur's footsteps, Merlin felt his own temper, birthed from the deprivation of sleep, arouse.

"Will you stop that!" he growled. The prince halted, staring at his servant in astonishment.

"What did you say?"

"I said, knock it off! It's irritating me."

"_I_...am irritating _you_?"

"Yes. Are you deaf as well as stupid?"

Arthur could only stare at Merlin in shock. "I could have you thrown in the stocks for that."

The argument that followed did not throw Merlin in the stocks, but he _was_ tossed into a cell, which made him all the more cranky. However, within the hour, he became depressed and sorry.

Arthur spent that whole hour hacking a straw-filled, armoured dummy with his sword until he could no longer move. He finished venting his anger, and ordered Merlin's release – after a sincere apology from him, of course, which the warlock was only too ready to give, as long as he was released from the damp and stench of the dungeons.

By nightfall, Merlin was still doing the usual chores – polishing Arthur's armour, shining his boots, washing his clothes, cleaning his room – and at any other time, he would have been ready for his warm bed. But now, he hoped Arthur wouldn't notice him still picking dirt from the prince's greaves, even after the sun was gone behind the hills.

"Merlin, you've been working hard all day. You should go rest."

"I'm fine," the warlock replied tightly, combing the armour for invisible specks of dust.

Arthur stared at him. "Don't think I haven't noticed that this is the third time you've polished that."

Merlin sheepishly placed the armour on the table.

"Well, go on, then."

Standing, Merlin snuffed out the candles, slowly, leaving only one to find his way out. Arthur watched him strangely the whole time. When Merlin finished, he then started to straighten the prince's folded clothes, as though they weren't already.

"Merlin—"

"Right, right, I'm going." He put away the armour cleaning tools, and then began to align the metal plates on the table.

"_Merlin_." Arthur pointed to the door and mouthed _go_.

The warlock bowed his head. "Goodnight, sire."

**† † †**

Merlin slapped himself in the face to stay awake. He was not in the mood to be killed by Freya—no, _Morgana_—again.

It had gotten worse over the past few days by a substantial amount. When the nightmares first began, the dreamer would wake up very quickly, and may or may not have another when they fell back asleep...if they even fell back asleep. But now, the nightmares held the victims, preventing them from waking up. The mind cannot rest if it is roiling in fear every night, all night.

Merlin was taking the long way back to his chambers when he nearly walked into Gwenevere.

The serving girl, former handmaiden to the Lady Morgana, did not look like she was having pleasant dreams herself.

She was stifling a yawn. "Oh, h-h-hi, Merlin," she said. She shook her head, eyes downcast. "Sorry, not enough sleep."

"You're not the only one," replied Merlin miserably, rubbing his temples. He went on his way.

"Your cheek is red. What happened?" The warlock did not seem to hear.

**Φ**

_He was back in the forest, only this time, he couldn't move, not even his eyes. There was a hiss from the surrounding trees, but he could not turn to run._

_Arthur suddenly stalked into his line of sight, wearing his newly shined armour. Something moved through the fog before them. The prince, holding a spear, turned to Merlin and raised an eyebrow._

"_It's probably more afraid of you than you are of it," he said, just before the Questing Beast sprang out of the mist and ripped him to pieces._

_Merlin tried to scream, but could not as the half-snake, half-leopard monster turned its attention on him. A voice whispered in his ear._

"_How are you going to fix this one, warlock?" it said, and he realized with horror that it was Nimue. "You've failed your destiny, Merlin."_

No!_ he thought. _No! You're dead!

_The forest started to vanish into darkness, but just before it did, he heard Nimue's cruel laughter in his ear, and the Questing Beast pounced on him, bloodied claws bared. He saw a flash of Morgana's face, smiling wickedly. The Beast had him—_

**Φ**

Merlin woke, arms outstretched, gasping for breath. His heart gradually slowed, and he wiped sweat from his forehead. Glancing out the window, cracked slightly open, he saw that it was not quite dawn.

He fell back against his pillow. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Arthur's mangled body, torn to shreds.

"She's dead," he whispered to himself, to the darkness. "She's dead. I killed her. And that monster as well."

The shadows did not reply.

**† † †**

Knowing that he wasn't going to fall asleep again, Merlin walked the castle grounds for an hour, until there was pink on the horizon. Shivering from the cold, he wandered back inside. Finding food in the kitchens, he ate what his churning stomach would take—which wasn't much—and brought more up to Arthur's chambers. Most likely the prince would already be awake, if his dream terrors were as bad as before.

This time, however, Arthur was not sitting at the table when Merlin got there that morning. He was still asleep, but deep in the throes of a nightmare.

"Father," he groaned, tossing and turning. "Father, please..."

Merlin set down the food tray and moved towards the bed.

"Arthur?"

"No...Gwen..."

"_Arthur_—"

"Please, Father...don't—"

Merlin started to shake the prince. "Sire, wake up—" He choked as Arthur's hand lunged out and grabbed him by the throat.

"I'll...kill you," said Arthur. To Merlin's horror, he saw that the prince's eyes were open, but could tell he was still asleep. "Touch her an' I'll..."

"Arthur," Merlin rasped, legs giving. He was unable to break his friend's painful grip on his neck. "Arth..." Only the prince's powerful grasp kept him off the floor.

"Fight me..._coward!_"

Irises flashed gold in the darkness.

_Smash!_

Arthur's eyes blinked and suddenly became clear as day. Puzzled, he stared at his hand suffocating Merlin for a second before releasing him in horror. The warlock crashed to the floor, sucking in air, throat burning. He started to cough as Arthur rolled off his bed on the other side in disbelief.

After a minute, Merlin was able to stagger to his feet. He didn't meet Arthur's eye. Instead, he picked up the pieces of the shattered water pitcher that had saved his life, and left.

**† † †**

"You think it's Morgana, don't you?"

Gaius led Merlin down the corridor, looking unsettled. "You suspect her?"

"Well, it makes sense. It's been a year since...you know. But there's been no word of her. I don't think she would have just fled, never to return."

"It is possible that this problem is of her doing. I'd treated her nightmares ever since she was a child, though they never truly went away. She would have suffered as we suffer now, but for much, much longer."

"So she's making us all feel her pain," Merlin said flatly.

"It seems so," finished Gaius.

**† † †**

Arthur mulled over Merlin's suggestion, staring into a goblet of wine. "Morgana..."

"Yes. It sounds right; I doubt that she would forget that we were the cause of her sister's death in a hurry. And with her growing power from the events of last year..."

The prince did not look happy. "Well, I suppose we can't rule her out."

For several moments, all that could be heard was the cackling flames in the hearth. Merlin fidgeted as Arthur continued to stare into his cup sightlessly and silently.

**† † †**

"The situation is getting out of hand. There have been five deaths in the past two days." Arthur stood before the council, hands clasped behind him, struggling not to yawn. "Three of those were from either a spouse or a parent strangling a family member in their sleep. The other two were suicides committed by the unwilling killers."

Sir Leon, on Arthur's right, glanced towards Gaius. "You have looked into this, I'm sure."

"I have, my lord."

"And what have you concluded?"

Gaius fidgeted uncomfortably. "I believe it to be magic."

"It _is_ magic," an adviser hissed.

"We don't know that," put out Arthur. "Maybe it's the water. It wouldn't be the first attack on the underground streams. Someone may have poisoned them."

"Who would do such a thing? We have no quarrel with the surrounding kingdoms," said Sir Elyan, sitting between Sirs Gwaine and Leon. "I don't recall Camelot having offended anyone, leastways."

"Three messages arrived by pigeon over the past four days," said Leon. All turned their gazes on him. "From three corners of the kingdom, speaking of mysterious occurrences that may...have something to do with sorcery." He paused. "One was from the south, from Cornwall, another the south-west, from Soltier, and the third from the north-east, the far north-east, past the borders of our land."

Arthur gaze flickered over to Merlin, who was standing just behind Gaius. Gwaine, too, reacted.

"They are asking for soldiers to investigate, all three of them," continued Leon. "Perhaps one is the root of our current attack."

"That answers 'where'. What about 'who?'" asked Elyan calmly, and yawned.

"We do have one suspicion," Arthur said hesitatingly.

"Morgana." Sir Lancelot muttered the word flatly. The usual light in his eyes was dimmed from the sleep loss.

Arthur nodded numbly. "With the power she acquired through...a series of unfortunate events last year, this may be her most dangerous attack yet."

"But how is such magic possible? You said yourself, Gaius, that the unnatural winter may have gotten its energy from the land, so the sorceress wouldn't exhaust herself and die before she succeeded in her plans. The land had withered to uselessness last year, and not only because of the cold. But now, the land is fine. No energy is being sucked from it. How is it possible?"

Arthur indicated to his servant. "Perhaps Merlin can explain. He was there when Morgana...Well, he'll explain."

Merlin heaved in a breath. "The item that she had demanded was...something that channels magic, and magnifies it. It was the single blue tail feather from the only Phoenix in existence, and with that power, she doesn't need to use the land to support her." Unconsciously, he raised his neckerchief higher to hide the bruises, and then hastily threw his arms back to his sides. Arthur looked away guiltily.

"Well, how the hell are we supposed to fight _that?_" asked Gwaine gruffly, tilting back on the two hind legs of his chair.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and opened it again but had no words.

"She is proof of what magic really is. It turns what you believe to be your closest friends and family into evil beings. This is why we must stamp out sorcery from the kingdom at all costs," insisted one of the chief advisers, Gerom. The man was a close friend to the ill King, Uther, and shared his views of magic entirely.

Merlin just managed to stop himself from shifting.

"I suggest we hire Bounty Hunters," said the adviser. "It would be too risky to send our knights."

"_We_ could find her," said Sir Percival in his low voice, "ourselves."

"It's too dangerous," replied Gerom. "We mustn't send knights on a wild goose chase, if that is all these messages turn out to be." The adviser looked Arthur square in the eye. "The council was charged by your father the King to keep you safe, sire. I know he would agree with me when I say that we must hire Bounty Hunters to investigate these pleas."

Outside, Arthur watched the sunset glow through the windows. He sighed. "Council is dismissed for the day. We will resume in the morning."

**† † †**

Pacing his chambers, the prince was restless. Merlin could almost _see_ the cloud of frustration over his head.

"Perhaps it's for the best. Gerom is right—it may be too risky sending important people in place of Hunters. Or a total waste of time."

Arthur looked at him incredulously. "Have you not got it into your thick skull? This is the _reason_ why men are knighted; to _protect_ the kingdom, not _hide_ in it and hope that if they don't move, all danger will pass. You of all people should know how dangerous and useless Bounty Hunters are."

Merlin's heart skipped. "M-me? Why?"

"Remember the one who'd caught that druid girl, before she escaped and terrorized the lower town as a Bastet?"

_Freya_, Merlin thought with a straight face.

"You were nearly beaten by him because he thought you knew her whereabouts?" Arthur waited expectantly.

"Oh, yeah." _And I_ did _know her whereabouts_, he added inwardly.

"See? Totally useless."

While Merlin pondered on whether Arthur meant that it was he or the Bounty Hunters who were useless, there was a knock at the door.

"Enter." Arthur raised an eyebrow but did not seem surprised when Lancelot and Gwaine stepped in, suited for riding. "We are ready, sire," said Lancelot.

"...Ready for what?"

Gwaine looked aghast. "For what? What d'you think? Not to go picking flowers!"

"You're going to go," added Lancelot, "with or without us, and with or without the council's consent."

Arthur glanced at Merlin as though the manservant had told the two knights his unsaid thoughts and plans. Merlin shrugged.

"Great minds think alike."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but it was clear to them all that he was grateful.

* * *

><p><strong>Is your Arthur as big a prat as mine?<strong>

**Sorry. Read that somewhere and I just had to say it! x3**

**Btw, it is a small thing but credit to the writers of S1 Ep 13 with Arthur's line of, "It's probably more afraid of you than you are of it." ~ it was added on purpose for the sake of the nightmare's impact on Merlin. Bad memories, right?**


	4. Vadĕ nočtũrno timőr

~4~ _Vadĕ nočtũrno timőr_

"You know what's in the far north-east?"

"Aye, I do." Merlin threw a spare shirt into his leather satchel.

Gaius watched the youth intently. "So you know what you're up against."

"Of course."

With a half-smile, Gaius passed the warlock a roll of bandages to take with him. "You are either very brave, Merlin, or very stupid."

"Let's hope the former," Merlin grinned.

The physician smiled fully back, but then suddenly looked worried. He turned and climbed the steps up to the balcony, where more shelves of books were kept. He picked one out and blew off the dust before returning to Merlin. Flipping through until he found the page he wanted, he set it down open on the table. There was a drawing of a cluster of buildings, and a tower in the distance.

"This is Mitheras. It was a grand city once, before a great evil swept upon it and drove away every inhabitant. To this day, the source of that evil remains a mystery, and even now people aren't sure if anyone moved back into the ancient walls. But the markings indicating where that messenger pigeon came from are unmistakable. Someone is indeed living in Mitheras."

"...But, don't they realize where they are? They must be _mad _to live there!"

"Things change," muttered Gaius, closing the tome. "Perhaps for Mitheras, the change was for the better."

That night, Merlin grabbed the magic book from under the loose floorboards beneath his bed: a gift from Gaius. He quickly found a spell that could eliminate his desire, and need, to sleep, at least temporarily. And, despite the physician's warnings on the risks of meddling with dreams, Merlin knew he had to find something to stop the nightmares for his companions. It would not do to be raided and not have the energy to fight back.

There were three powerful spells that removed dreams, good and bad, which were out of his current skill range. The fourth, however, was simple, effective, though only worked on those already asleep and dreaming. Which meant, of course, that Merlin would be the only one stuck with nightmares.

Gaius slept peacefully that night, unaware as to what Merlin had done for him.

At dawn, Balinor and two other horses smelled the warlock for food as he saddled them. Then he stood before the two stalls containing Smokie, the won silver mare, and Noble, Arthur's roan. The prince had put Merlin in charge of getting four horses prepared, but did not specify which horse he wanted.

In a split-second decision, he grabbed Noble's saddle. A hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped.

"No. I'll take Smokie," said Arthur, ignoring Merlin's startled reaction. "She's better for long distance. And take the smaller saddle. We travel light."

Lancelot and Gwaine entered the stables, geared up to go.

"Where is Elyan and Percival?" the warlock asked.

"They and Leon are going the other way. The pigeon messages from the south and south-east came from cities not two days distant from each other. While they investigate those two, we shall be checking the far north-east."

Merlin glanced at the knights before leaning close to the prince. In a low voice, he said, "You _do_ remember what's in the far north-east, right?"

"The Perilous Lands," Arthur replied confidently, unfazed.

"At least the sunsets are breathtaking," said Gwaine, grinning, and then yawning widely.

The four of them rode through the Eastern Woods as the sun broke the horizon. All day they travelled, stopping only to rest the horses. They ate in the saddle, and by nightfall they were ready to collapse. In addition to the hard travel, they had the many sleepless nights to account for.

Merlin nearly fell from the saddle as Arthur finally called a halt in an aspen grove thirty miles from Camelot. The sun was golden on the western horizon, and if he wasn't so tired, he would have been able to appreciate its majesty.

"We can't risk a fire this close to Camelot," said Arthur, handing his reins to Merlin, who took them grudgingly. "If they see the smoke, we could be finished before we've even begun."

Merlin wanted to just lean against Balinor and sleep, but he forced himself to brush him and Smokie down before unravelling his bed roll and crashing on top of it.

Arthur followed suit beside a log. "Don't get too comfortable, Merlin. You've got first watch...Merlin?"

**† † †**

Icy stream water yanked out of his nightmare world, just in time to save him from another horrifying death in the hands of his deceased lover.

"Breakfast," said Arthur, dropping his empty water skin on the manservant's chest. Merlin dried his face with his blanket and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The other two were crawling from bed rolls as well.

"Who's Freya?" asked Gwaine sleepily. Merlin didn't answer.

**† † †**

It was obvious none of them had gotten any real sleep. From the back of the group, Merlin could see his companions swaying in their saddles. They were going at a slower pace, which was fortunate because one of them could dose off and fall from their seats at any moment. They remained at a trot mostly; the bumpiness kept them awake.

"We don't know where we're going, do we?" asked Gwaine, yawning.

"Is there even a city near the Perilous Lands?" added Lancelot.

"Mitheras," Merlin blurted. The others glanced at him.

The prince nodded. "That's right, Merlin." He massaged his eyes, and studied the map they had brought. "Yes, the isolated, dead city of Mitheras, right on the border of the Lands. More of a ghost town than anything, but there are still people living there—according to a pigeon." His mouth twitched. Then he squinted closer at the map, searching. "But there was a druid camp that Morgana stayed at a couple years ago. I want to check there before going to the Perilous Lands, to see if they have any word of her."

"What? You mean the camp that was raided and destroyed?" asked Merlin. "The druids wouldn't return there. And anyway, we're going in the wrong direction."

Silence.

"I know that!" Arthur snapped. "I just wanted to come at it from another direction."

"But we're going east," pushed Merlin, hiding a triumphant smile. "The camp was north-west of Camelot."

"Shut up, Merlin."

Lancelot turned and winked at the warlock, trying not to grin.

**† † †**

They turned in the right direction to the Perilous Lands and Mitheras, and found the ruins of a small abbey to shelter in for the night. They lit a fire to boil water for tea and they made a thin, bland stew with a rabbit Gwaine had managed to take out with a sling. At least it was hot.

After Merlin cleaned out his empty bowl, he started to stand, but Arthur shoved lightly at him before he could straighten. The warlock was unable to keep his balance and fell to his hands and knees.

"Oops," said Arthur, but his weariness flattened his words. "You have an actual watch this time, Merlin. Don't get too comfortable."

"Yeah, you told me that already."

Arthur paused. "I did?"

"...Yes."

Arthur thought a moment, then shrugged and crawled into his bed roll. "Wake Gwaine when the moon hits that pillar."

The three of them seemed to take forever to shut their eyes, desiring the sleep but wary of nightmares. Merlin, eager to use that spell that would remove his need for rest for the night, silently urged them to sleep.

Lancelot was the last to close his eyes for good. Merlin was tempted to try the spell while the knight was awake, because he was one of the only three living people who knew of the warlock's magic, apart from Gaius and his mother, Hunith. But he stayed his hand until Lancelot stopped blinking and his breathing slowed, and then waited until the three of them were thrashing in the clutches of personal demons.

Merlin closed his eyes, whispering, "_Noň dörmĭunt_."Magic spread its wings and swept through the warlock, warm and comforting. All at once, his eyes were free of ache and tiredness, and his head stopped pounding. His limbs were still sore, but they had at least stopped shaking. For the first time in in a long while, he felt rejuvenated.

Arthur was closest to him. Merlin crept towards him, making sure not to turn any rocks. The prince's forehead was already beaded with sweat, and he was grunting in fear. Careful not to touch him as he rolled over, Merlin held a hand over Arthur's face.

"_Vadĕ nočtũrno timőr_."

Arthur shuddered, and as Merlin recoiled and retreated, flashes of fire and blood flared through his mind, and he glimpsed what Arthur dreamed. They vanished as quick as they appeared.

Arthur's eyes opened a slit, and looked around sightlessly before shutting again. His breathing calmed, slowed, and fell silent.

A horse grumbled from its post, just out of the fire's light. Merlin ignored it.

Gwaine was next. Finishing with Lancelot, Merlin saw a snippet of what they both dreamed. When at last all was to be heard was calm breathing, a simpering fire, muttering horses and crickets, Merlin wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and prepared for a long, dull, sleepless night.

**† † †**

It was mid-morning when when Arthur finally shifted onto his back, and stretched his arms behind his head. He blinked and noticed Merlin staring intently into the dead fire pit, looking cozy wrapped in a blanket.

"...Have you been sitting there the whole night?" he asked.

Merlin nodded.

"Did you fall asleep?" There was a rise of warning in his voice.

"No." Merlin yawned. His spell to keep him awake had only just started to wear off.

Arthur crawled from his sleeping bag. "Well, you could have at least kept the fire going."

Merlin rolled his eyes.

Standing, the prince put his hands to his hips and turned in a circle. "It's mid-morning." No reply. Suddenly, Arthur looked puzzled. "I dreamt of you last night."

"Cute," said Gwaine, reaching for the sky from where he lay.

Arthur gave him a dangerous look. "It was only for a second, but...I was being attacked, and...you saved me."

Merlin guarded his expression.

"And then...the nightmare ended. Everything is blank after that...And I feel _great!_"

Gwaine stood up as Lancelot emerged from his sleeping roll. "Strange. Something similar happened to me," said the ruffian knight. "I was falling, and you grabbed my arm, Merlin. I remember nothing after that."

Arthur looked strangely at his manservant. "Anything with you, Lancelot?"

As the prince and Gwaine both turned towards the third knight, Lancelot saw the barely noticeable, but very urgent shake of Merlin's head. "Er, no, actually. I...didn't dream at all."

"Hm, perhaps because we are so far from Camelot, the spell is weakening its hold on us," said Arthur. He suddenly seemed even more spry. "Right, let's go."

"Where?" asked Merlin, yawning again and standing. Yes, the spell was definitely wearing off.

"There's a village about three leagues from here. We'll stop there and see how they are in regards to this curse."

"And a village means ale," put in Gwaine, grinning. "And gambling. How much gold do we have, Arthur?"

The knight received a second warning look. "Not enough to waste on wine and the roll of a dice."

"I wouldn't call it _wasting_..."

"Saddle up, men," Arthur interrupted. "You too, Merlin."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Now<em>**** the action will begin. See you next week!**

**PS Thanks for the fantabulous reviews! They make me happy! :D**

**Rough translations from Latin:  
><strong>**_Non dormiunt_****: No rest  
><strong>**_Vade nocturno timor_****: Go, fear of the night**


	5. Ambush!

**I'm baaa-aaack!**

* * *

><p>~5~ <span>Ambush!<span>

The weather was against the warlock that day. It was calm and comfortingly warm, and it gently coaxed him to sleep more than once. He managed to jerk awake before anyone noticed, at least until the last time, when Lancelot turned at the right moment to see him slump against Balinor's neck. The knight fell back beside him.

"You _did_ help us last night, didn't you, Merlin." It wasn't a question.

"I don't think I had much choice. We can't _all_ go around half dead."

"It was nice, I admit. If it wasn't for the heat of the day, we probably would _still_ be sleeping." Lancelot paused. "But it would be best if you didn't do it again."

"What? Why?"

"I _did_ see you in my nightmare, Merlin. Just like the others, it was as if you pulled me out of it and left nothing to fear. I appreciate what you did, but if we all saw you, then it's too risky."

"But I—_can't imagine why you'd be interested in wolfsbane, but it's very poisonous_..." Merlin lowered his voice again as Arthur continued his conversation with Gwaine. "I can't let us all be too exhausted to defend ourselves. Who knows whether Morgana's spell will _actually_ wear off."

"Perhaps it would be better if you don't—"

"No. I won't do it every night, how's that? Not every night, and not every_one_."

"Pick up the pace, men," called Arthur over his shoulder, and kneed his horse into a trot.

Merlin fell in behind Lancelot as the surrounding foliage ate at the path, making it too narrow for two to walk abreast. After a while of this, the path widened again, and Merlin felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. As he slowed Balinor to a walk, the warlock scanned the trees.

Lancelot noticed that Merlin had fallen behind. "What's wrong?"

The servant had now stopped entirely. He slowly looked to his right—

"_Bandits!_"

A crossbow bolt just missed his ear, but two more thudded into Balinor's neck and chest. The beast shrieked, wheeling around. Merlin screamed, too, as the horse then fell onto his side and crushed the warlock's leg beneath his great body.

The screech of swords raked the air, followed by the howls of thieving brigands.

Merlin saw nothing in his pain, only heard Arthur's bellowed orders. Then the clash of swords on swords and screams of agony bombarded his ears. His vision cleared just in time for him to see Balinor's head sag to the dust, never to rise again. Shoving his grief to the side to feel later, he tried to wriggle his way out from beneath the horse's body, but he was pinned. Nothing was broken, yet he had already lost the feeling in most of his leg.

The bandits were many, but the knights and their prince fought valiantly. If they hadn't gotten any real sleep—

But valiance wasn't enough. As the battle thickened, the tide grew ever more dire.

Lancelot's steed panicked, kicking out violently and preventing its rider from being of any use. Gwaine's black squealed and reared before a bandit drove his sword up to the hilt into its chest. The beast died standing, and the knight jumped from the saddle. An archer near the trees levelled a crossbow at Gwaine, a triumphant expression on his face. Arthur's sword got caught in the body of a bandit, leaving his left side unguarded, and a fresh renegade was charging in to take the advantage.

_Do something!_ Merlin screamed at himself, and he focused on the archer targeting Gwaine. The bandit could not have been more surprised to find his crossbow suddenly jerking towards Arthur's attacker and firing. The prince, too, was astonished as the thug's sword missed him by inches and the man fell dead, a bolt in his neck. The shocked archer was slain from behind by another, who clearly thought him a traitor.

Merlin couldn't help but nod grimly at the chaos he'd caused, as yet another bandit killed the other who believed that the archer had gone turncoat. No one blamed the trapped, useless servant on the side of the road.

Even so, the disorder only lasted so long. In a wave of battle cries, the bandits swarmed around the knights. Several reached up and dragged Arthur from the saddle. The Pendragon prince vanished into the howling mob.

"Arthur!" Merlin roared.

"_Yaaaaarg!_"

Gwaine, the strongest of them all, charged headlong into the confusion. Bandits were knocked flying like pins, those not hit by the raging knight tripping over the flailing legs of others. And then there were the men suddenly and inexplicably falling on their faces as their feet were torn from under them by invisible ropes. Others still were kicked in the head and chest by Lancelot's crazy horse. The melee was a ball of disarray, and not likely how the bandits had planned.

Thought dead or just not a threat, Merlin was ignored by the renegades. The knights were too preoccupied with keeping alive for two more minutes to notice him. The warlock made a decision. He had to use magic to free himself from beneath his horse, to get to Arthur. He looked at the dead beast, opened his mouth—

A yowl from an attacking thug halted the words on his lips. The bandit was swinging a blade over his head, running straight for the pinned manservant. He lifted the sword, point down for a stabbing kill—

"_Merlin!_"

Arthur blurred into the scene and slammed into the offender. As the bandit crashed into the dirt, the prince thrust his sword into his chest.

"To kill a trapped man: pa_thetic_," hissed Arthur, yanking his blade free. The thug grunted one last time and slumped lifelessly.

Merlin continued struggling to free himself. "Watch out!" The prince whirled around to parry a sneak attack from another brigand.

As four more bandits charged Arthur at once, Lancelot, back in control, rode down two from horseback, and Gwaine shot another from an abandoned crossbow. The fourth slid to a halt, looked at each knight in turn, and bolted into the trees. His remaining kin did the same, shrieking in fear. Then, at last, all fell still.

Arthur whirled his sword a few times before sheathing it. "You all right?" he asked his knights, who nodded in confirmation.

"Oh, yeah, I'm good, too. Just sorta stuck under my horse, here," said Merlin casually.

The combined strength of three powerful men wasn't enough to free him, so Lancelot suggested they remove the saddle, and at the same time, Merlin's leg will gradually come free.

The two knights unbuckled the straps and prepared to slide the saddle off while Arthur grabbed Merlin's arms, and braced to pull.

"One, two, _heave!_"

Merlin grunted and bit his tongue as his flesh sliced open against the road. The knights worked gradually, and then with one final tug, his leg came free. Circulation returned to the limb, and he clutched it as he received the worst case of pins and needles in history.

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and pulled away his hands to inspected the wounds. He just managed to rein in a grimace. "Not too shabby. Needs to be cleaned up though."

Merlin wasn't listening. He was petting the cooling neck of Balinor, blank faced. The beast had been as noble and faithful as any friend. Sighing, the warlock went to stand, but his leg throbbed, and he nearly fell over. Arthur caught his arm and straightened him. "Don't move," he said, yet Merlin pulled away roughly anyway. He assessed the outcome of the fight. Gwaine's dead horse and several bandit corpses littered the road, already attracting flies. Smokie was standing calmly by the side of the road, grazing.

"We should go," said Lancelot. "They may be back with reinforcements."

Stuck with just two horses that had only small, one-rider saddles, the company started to walk the remaining five miles to the nearest village, where, hopefully, they would be able to barter for two new steeds. Arthur's money pouch only had enough for one decent one, he estimated, but that's where Gwaine came in.

"Few can beat me at a game of Black Jack," he said, chest puffing out.

"Then let's hope those few aren't playing."

Merlin declined the offer to ride several times, despite his leg injury. He walked with a limp, and blood seeped lightly from beneath the bandages.

"Don't force me to make it an order," said Arthur when the warlock again refused to get on a horse.

"I've walked with worse," Merlin insisted.

"...No you haven't!"

Merlin ignored him.

"Merlin, I order you to ride that horse."

"To hell with your orders."

"Merlin!"

"Two miles," said Gwaine, reading a milestone.

* * *

><p><strong>Ow. Leg injuries <strong>**_suck_****.**

**Feel free to criticize me black and blue!**


	6. Voices on the Wind

**I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts (dee lee dee) There they are standing in a row...**

**Oh, hi! :D**

* * *

><p>~6~ <span>Voices On the Wind<span>

Stubborn, Merlin also refused to see a physician. The money was needed to buy horses, not look after his leg, he said. He knew enough from Gaius's teachings on how to find simple herbs that would take care of infection and pain. Now, however, he just wanted to rest.

The tavern they entered was loud and stuffy, but it had cheap rooms and half-decent food. After leaving Lancelot's horse and Smokie with a shifty stable boy, they grabbed a table inside and ordered drinks. None but Gwaine could rest comfortably – they constantly watched, and were watched by, the other inhabitants.

"Ah, I do believe I see a game of Black Jack starting up," Gwaine said cheerfully. He glanced at Arthur, expectant. The prince reluctantly gave the knight a small amount of coins, but at Gwaine's disappointed expression, he rolled his eyes and doubled it. Then the ruffian was off, bellowing a challenge. He was welcomed by the locals whole-heartily.

Merlin yawned, which started a chain-reaction with the rest of the table.

"Strange," said the prince, covering his mouth. "No one here seems to be affected by the nightmare curse."

"Are _we_, still?" Lancelot's question got shrugs all around.

"There isn't a sober man in here," Arthur observed, frowning. "I don't think there's much use asking questions."

Cries of triumph and despair exploded from the Black Jack table. Before the company could see who was winning, four women, skimpily dressed, stepped into their view, battering eyelashes. Two surrounded Arthur, another started to massage Lancelot's shoulders, and the fourth sat down uncomfortably close to Merlin.

The warlock was bombarded by a strong smell of onions, but he smiled politely, albeit awkwardly, and avoided eye contact. By the others' barely concealed expressions, their lady invaders didn't exactly smell like fresh daisies either.

When she smiled, Merlin saw yellow teeth, one missing. She scooted her seat closer and put her hand on his, but the warlock quickly withdrew his arm and tried to ignore her. Lancelot, he noticed, was gently but firmly removing his interloper's hands from his shoulders, or at least trying to – she kept putting them back. Arthur was attempting to keep the other two at bay, but one had sat on his lap and another held him in his chair from behind. Merlin thought he saw something moving near Arthur's pouch at his belt.

"You're cute," said Merlin's unwanted companion.

The warlock suddenly realized that the woman behind Arthur was cutting away his money bag. He opened his mouth in warning just as his own invader put her hand on his leg and squeezed his knee, his injured knee.

"Hey—_yowch!_"

The table was startled into silence, and then the tinkle of coins hitting the ground sang in everyone's ear. With a cry Arthur was on his feet, sword out, and both of his lady intruders squealed. The one behind him dropped the money pouch she almost made away with. Lancelot stood and shoved his masseuse away. Merlin tried to do the same, but fell over, his leg weak and pained. He landed with a crash.

Now the whole tavern was silent. As Merlin stood, red-faced, Arthur confronted the thief. She hastily picked up the money pouch and gave it to the prince before scurrying away with her companions.

There were no other taverns in the village. The prince's party would have been forced to sleep under the stars again if they left. So they stayed, and the landlord gave them a free round of drinks in apology for the attempted theft. Arthur kept a hand on his sword hilt from then on.

For the next hour, they watched as Gwaine gave the occasional reassuring thumbs up, or a notable avoidance of eye contact. Over that time, Merlin became more and more uncomfortable and stifling hot, almost feverish. He told the others he was going to go out for some fresh air and left the tavern.

Outside, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the small settlement. As it vanished behind the treetops, Merlin emerged from the woods with a small pouch of herbs. Back at the tavern, he found Lancelot and Arthur holding Gwaine and another Black Jack player back from swinging fists.

"Cheatin' scum!" the local snapped. "I rip yer eyes out!"

"You're but a poor loser, my 'friend,'" replied Gwaine. Arthur tightened his grip on the local's shirt as he tried to lunge at the knight. Spittle flew from the man's mouth. Gwaine chose that moment to calmly stand straight, pull away from Lancelot's hold and smooth his clothes. "Fine. _I'll_ do the mature thing," he said, striding away. The local again tried to lunge at him, but the landlord intervened and promptly kicked the man from the tavern, quite literally.

As Gwaine passed, he hoisted the enlarged sack of coins and winked at his companions.

Too tired to care, Merlin headed up to the room he and Arthur were to share, tripping and limping up the stairs in his exhaustion.

Opening the door, he heard the prince come up behind him, and they both scanned the small space. There was a precarious table balancing a water pitcher and bowl, a stool, a tiny fireplace (being one of the 'best' rooms), and one bed, with two pillows and an extra blanket.

The prince and manservant stared at the narrow bed and its even narrower mattress, and then at each other with a look of '_not a chance in Hell_.'

"I'll take the floor, then, shall I?" said Merlin, to Arthur's grim nod.

**† † †**

Thankful that there was at least a fireplace, Merlin heated water and used the herbs to properly disinfect and numb his leg. Wrapping his wounds in fresh bandages, he put away the remaining leaves before making his floorspace as comfortable as possible. He unravelled his sleeping roll for extra cushioning to have with the inn's blanket and pillow.

The door didn't have a stopper, and Arthur didn't trust the place anymore, so right in front of it is where Merlin eventually laid down. His hip and shoulder soon started to ache on the hard floors, but he kept thinking of how he'd slept worse, and closed his eyes.

Sleep came quickly. As did the nightmares.

**† † †**

Despite his weariness, Arthur found himself unable to fall asleep. He was used to more comfortable mattresses, and this one was more lumpy than old cheese curds. His pillow was flatter than a pancake, the sheets were scratchy, and the room had a constant breeze whispering in through a crack in the window. He was more cozy sleeping out under the moon. It wasn't helping that soon after falling asleep, his servant started groaning in distress. Knowing that waking him wouldn't do much good, Arthur tried to ignore him by covering his ears with his pillow. It was pointless.

"Mm...my fault..."

As mumbles became words, Arthur couldn't help but listen to what Merlin said.

"No...no, Da..."

Arthur sat up, curious. Merlin mentioned once that he had grown up without a father, just as he himself had lived without a mother.

"...My fault...no...my fault."

"Merlin?" Arthur swung his feet off his bed.

"I killed...no...Da..."

The prince crept forward and crouched down beside his servant, who was beginning to sweat, and started to nudge him lightly. "Merlin."

"I...sorry...don't die...'S my fault!"

"_Merlin_!" Arthur grabbed the youth's shirt and shook him vigorously. Merlin's hand snatched out and grabbed Arthur's wrist. With a gasp of air, the manservant woke, a fearful, almost animal look in his eye.

Arthur sighed as the haunted look faded. "Finally. You...er, you were disturbing my sleep."

"Oh. Sorry, sire."

A small jerk of his head signalled the prince's surprise. There was definitely something wrong; Merlin didn't even give a witty comeback, and he was the only one Arthur tolerated such insolence from.

As he straightened to return to bed, he heard Merlin sigh and saw him wipe away a bead of sweat, or was it a tear?

**† † †**

There were few hours left before dawn when Arthur finally slept, and dreamt. Merlin eliminated his weariness with a few quiet words and stood, stretching out the stiffness.

This time, it was harder to pull Arthur from his nightmare. Like he had to reach into a much deeper pool, the use of more magic was necessary to penetrate the barrier between the world of reality and dreams. Eventually, he did succeed, but he frowned, thinking about the heightened resistance and difficulty since last time. As Arthur's breathing evened, Merlin left the room, shaking the visions of the prince's nightmare from his mind, only to hear the moans and screams of other inmates caught in the clutches of night demons. He shivered at the haunting sounds. Morgana's curse reached far indeed.

Abruptly, he paused. Didn't Arthur say the people seemed unaffected earlier? Why would they now, all of a sudden?

He exited the inn and wandered the streets, pondering.

**† † †**

The bay wasn't Balinor, yet it looked capable enough for the price offered in exchange, even if it was a stubborn beast. Gwaine's new white mare was skittish, but was supposed to have good speed and stamina.

It rained for the whole day as the party trudged north-east. Wrapped as tightly as corpses against the chill and damp, they said next to nothing and stopped just to rest the horses. After half a day of sunshine, it rained for the next and well into another, slowing their progress.

Blowing into his hands, Merlin shoved them under his armpits but did not complain. Arthur wanted to go just two more miles that night before breaking for camp. They would only manage if they pushed the poor horses into a steady canter and stayed there until it got too dark to travel safely. However, it wasn't possible to make it another two miles, on even ground, anyway.

The four companions stood together in a line, staring down into the cavernous ravine. Dusk had fallen too much to properly sight the bottom, even after the rain had broken to let in some light, but it was twenty horse-lengths across, clearly an impossible jump. And from their position, it looked to be several miles long in both directions.

"We're further south than I thought," Arthur muttered, unrolling the map and frowning.

"We should scout for a bridge," said Lancelot.

Arthur shook his head. "In the morning. We'll camp here tonight."

It was not a silent evening. Wind howled through the ravine, sending shivers down the travellers' spines. They were the wails of restless spirits, never still, never at peace.

"Don't be _ridiculous_, Merlin," snorted the prince as the warlock muttered his thoughts about the sounds. "It's just _wind_. Stop being such a girl." Even so, Arthur scanned the gully opening as the winds screamed in pain.

**† † †**

Myror the Assassin had nearly finished strangling him with a garrote when Gwaine shook him awake for his watch. Merlin waited for his heart to stop racing before taking his place as the sentinel.

The winds had not stopped over the past several hours. The warlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the ravine, a score of paces away, expecting something to crawl from the dark abyss, moaning in agony.

Restless, Merlin threw his poking stick into the fire and began to wander around. He tried to ignore the terrified throes of his sleeping companions. The night prior, he had relieved them all of nightmares, and felt that this time, he shouldn't risk it, especially because it was so difficult before. The resistance that he'd felt at the inn had expanded. A force repelled his magic, and tried to prevent it from working. Using more power, he was successful anyway, but last night, he had come so close to waking Gwaine and being caught in the process. This time, they will have to sleep roughly.

He heard the distressed whicker of a horse, and squinted over at where the beasts were tied for the night. There was a faint, moon-lit outline of one of them pulling at something, and it took a while for Merlin to realize that its halter had tangled in the bushes.

With soft, soothing words, he slowly approached the horse, which he discovered was his own bay stallion. It whinnied at his touch and smell, and as Merlin untangled the halter rope from the bush, he brushed its warm neck. Then his head whipped around at the clink of stone turning on stone.

Out of the fire's ring of light, it was easier to see further around the camp, but nothing seemed amiss. _Just an animal_, he thought, and suddenly realized that everything had calmed, calmed but for the moans of his dreaming companions. The wind had dampened.

_...Meeeer-iiiin..._

He frowned, eyes glancing around shiftily, and then shrugged. _Must have been a breeze down in the ravine_. He finished unscrambling the halter, but before he could tie it back up—

_Meeerr-liiiiinn_...

Alright. That _definitely_ wasn't a breeze.

He wandered towards the fire, not turning his back on the ravine. He nearly crouched to take Arthur's sword, which was sitting in its scabbard near its owner, but the warlock realized that such a move would have been very stupid. The prince was known to wake at the quietest slither of a blade. Even in his nightmare, he may very well arise and instinctively punch Merlin in the nose before he knew what he was doing.

Merlin left the light of the fire once more, and stepped closer to the ravine. "Who—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Who's there?"

There was a hiss, and he tensed.

And then he heard the sound of a child weeping.

He blinked in surprise, but did not relax. "H-hello?"

The cries grew louder and more heart wrenching. "_Help me!_" It sounded like a young girl.

Merlin took a few hesitant steps. "Where are you?"

"Help me, Mama! Papa!" More sobs echoed from the chasm. Merlin rushed to the edge and fell to his knees, ear cocked down. "I'm trapped!_ Help!_"

"Hold on! I'll come get you!" He opened his hand upwards, whispered, "_lučem_," and a blue orb began to glow on his palm. "Where are you?"

"_Right here_."

A span of warm, leathery membrane enveloped the warlock before he could gasp, and pulled him into the ravine without a sound.

He escaped once, but before he could climb free of the gully, something jabbed into his lower back, silencing him, and he was yanked back down from behind. Only finger marks, clawed into the dirt, indicated he was ever there.

* * *

><p><strong>Dun dun DUN!<strong>

**What the hell was that? What stole our Merlin?**

**Guess you'll find out ... NEXT MONDAY! MWA HA HA HA!**


	7. The Ravine

~7~ The Ravine

Arthur sighed, not opening his eyes. "Put a log on the fire, would you, Merlin?" He rolled over and curled up to retain warmth. Silence greeted his request. He frowned, eyes still closed. "Merlin, you listening?" Still nothing. He sighed again, rough with impatience, and sat up, shivering in the crisp, late morning air. As he did so, he saw Lancelot rise and Gwaine yawn. Merlin was nowhere in sight. "Where did that lazy lump get to?"

Lancelot cracked his neck as he stretched. "I don't remember having my watch."

"That's all right. You can have mine tonight," said Gwaine cheerfully.

Arthur stood, yawning, and scanned the surrounding trees. "Merlin?" His voice echoed emptily.

"He probably just had to pee," Gwaine reassured.

The companions waited silently for several minutes.

"That's a really long pee."

Lancelot touched the servant's bed roll. It was dead cold. "Perhaps he went looking for food," he said. "Berries or something."

"His horse is gone," muttered Arthur. "He wouldn't just..._leave?_"

"Not unless he decided go without the tack," said Gwaine, counting the saddles nearby. All four were present. "For some reason, I don't think he just went for a morning ride."

Arthur grew restless. All weariness caused by lack of sleep vanished as the knowledge of his friend's disappearance sank in. Standing, he wandered over to where the horses were picketed, all the while staring at the ground. The other day's rain had softened the soil, allowing their footprints to be moulded into the earth. Overnight, the mud had hardened slightly, and the prints were clearly legible. Merlin's tracks, different from the riding boots of the knights', led towards where his horse was once roped, and then back towards the camp.

Around the dead fire pit, it was too difficult to tell where Merlin went exactly, but the prince was able to find the tracks leading back out, out towards the ravine. They were crisscrossed by a couple of deer and by a curious wolf; however, the wolf prints lacked claw marks, so it wasn't on the attack—it couldn't be the source of the missing servant. That left the ravine.

Heart leaping into his mouth, Arthur strode quickly to the edge of the chasm, eyes following the footprints, forcing himself not to run. The other two tailed him closely. He was at the edge before he knew it, and, scanning the gap quickly, he bellowed, "_Merlin?!_"

_Merlin...erlin...in, _the chasm mocked.

"Sire..." Lancelot was kneeling, inspecting marks in the dirt. Arthur crouched beside him, and alarm bells rang in his head. They were finger marks, and they inevitably dragged into the ravine.

Arthur cursed and stood, roaring into the gully for his servant once more. He received the same echoing, taunting reply as before.

"I very much doubt screaming your lungs out will do much good, Arthur," said Gwaine calmly, leaning out as far as he dared and looking down. "If he fell..."

The prince shook his head, teeth gritting in frustration. He was border-lining on despair. "By these marks, he was pulled in. We must go after him, find him."

No one brought up the question, but it flew through everyone's mind. _How?_

Suddenly, Lancelot snapped his fingers. "His horse."

The other two glanced at him strangely. "It probably pulled free in the night and followed him," the knight explained. "Wherever he was ta—went. I once had a horse that followed me clear across Cenred's country, through forest and swamplands. If it trusts you enough, a horse will tail you anywhere."

"Lancelot, that's _brilliant_—! But where are the tracks? I'm sure the beast would have come here first before looking for a way down—"

"You ninny. You're _standing_ on them," Gwaine said flatly, pushing Arthur aside and revealing the distinctive marks of hooves, dried in the mud. The tracks approached the chasm edge before turning right, and vanishing into the distance.

"Let's go," said Arthur with determination.

"But what if the horse never found a way down? Just wandered off?"

"If it couldn't get down, then it would continue until it forgot his scent or returned here. I doubt the former and don't see the latter. We follow."

In minutes, the dwindled company had saddled up and were trusting a _horse_ to lead them to their lost companion. It was a far toss, but their only one.

**† † †**

Arthur couldn't help but lose hope as they trotted for a few minutes, and suddenly the tracks vanished as dirt became stone. Nevertheless, he refused to let his despair show, and kept his head up, pretending full confidence. After a quarter mile, Gwaine finally said, "You can stop faking your hope, mate. We all feel discouraged."

"Discouraged, yes. But I will notstop searching," Arthur snapped, and kicked Smokie into a canter.

Gwaine grunted. "I never said you _should_. Clotpole," he added, grinning at his use of Arthur's pet name, and nudging his horse to pursue the prince—only to have to yank back on the reins to prevent crashing into the other rider.

"Here!"

"What?" Gwaine grumbled in irritation.

Arthur ignored him and dismounted, investigating the edge.

"A way down?" asked Lancelot hopefully, also dismounting.

There was indeed a way down. Jagged, shifty, but it turned back the way they came, and that was something.

"Looks more like a goat trail," said Gwaine uneasily.

"Stay here if you're afraid to stub your delicate little toes." Arthur was already stepping down onto the ledge, pulling Smokie by the reins.

The route was treacherous. If they moved any faster, their feet would slip on slatey stone and they would fall to their deaths. Arthur was already pushing them to risky speeds, but if his servant was still alive, injured or lost...

Smokie whinnied in distress as a hoof slipped, but she caught herself just as Arthur's heart jumped a league.

"Easy there, mate," said Gwaine, as a chunk of rock crumbled away from underfoot and he crashed down indignantly with an "_oof!_" onto his backside.

It got darker the further they descended, and they descended quite a bit. By the time they reached the bottom, the ravine opening above was only a finger's width wide. Judging by the shape of the rocks around them, a river had once flowed through there, long ago. Now only the wind passed by, whispering soothingly to the stone. At least they weren't like the howls of the night before.

The lack of light gave their surroundings a blue haze, but there was enough to see comfortably with, and Arthur deemed it safe to ride at a brisk pace. They followed the ravine back the way they had come above, roughly estimating where Merlin's tracks ended at the edge. The bay horse was nowhere to be seen. Arthur tried calling for his friend once more.

"Merlin!?" _Merlin...erlin...in...?_

Gwaine grinned. "That really is the best echo I've ever HEARD!" _Heard...erd...er..._

"Keep an eye out, men," said Arthur gruffly, "for a foot print. A boot. _Anything_ that would indicate what happened to him."

"Like this?" Lancelot had dismounted and was holding something up. Arthur turned in the saddle, and then practically flew off of it in his haste.

"Where was it?" Arthur snatched Merlin's neckerchief from Lancelot. It had been torn free of the servant's neck, and there was something that looked suspiciously like—

"Blood?"

The prince inspected the dark stain grimly. "I'm not sure..." He lifted his gaze and scanned the rocks helplessly. "Where could he have gone?"

"Or been taken to?" Gwaine frowned at the kerchief. The servant had always worn one._ Always _wears_ one_, he made himself think.

_...Aaaw-thaaah..._

The three companions stared at each other, then grinned awkwardly.

"Spooky wind," said Gwaine, teeth showing forcefully.

_Aaaaw-thaaaaah..._

Arthur pointedly cleared his throat and spoke in a notably loud voice, "Scout the area. Lancelot, you check over there. Gwaine, there..."

Feet slipping over crumbling rock, the companions scrutinized the walls of the ravine, checking every nook and cranny, calling for the servant. A half-hour passed, and they checked further and further along, trying to push down the weariness the nightmares had caused. They didn't risk stopping, because they were afraid that if they did, they wouldn't be able to start again.

Arthur checked a hollow log that had been down there for a few decades, and then sat down on it, rubbing his eyes. Lancelot was looking into a gap hidden by an overhang, lying on his stomach to see in. He never stood up. Gwaine began to doze, sitting on a ledge he nearly leaped off of.

"Is it painfully obvious to say that the nightmares are getting worse?" asked Gwaine, eyes still shut.

"And I thought we would be free of them this far from Camelot," muttered Arthur, suppressing a yawn. Rock clicked on rock, and the three companions all turned sluggishly towards the source of the sound. A horse whickered uneasily. And then there was stillness for several minutes.

Someone snored.

_Aaaw-thaaah—_

"—I'm awake!" The prince's arms pinwheeled to regain his balance on the log.

Lancelot rolled onto his back where he lay, staring skywards at the thin ravine opening. Then he frowned. "What's that?"

"Hm?" Both Gwaine and Arthur glanced disinterestedly at him.

"There's a...I don't know. Looks like a cave entrance."

"Where?" Arthur demanded, standing abruptly and tilting his head up.

"There, just by that rock jutting out of the ravine, not too far up. See?"

"Yeah, there's definitely something there," the prince said thoughtfully, and hopefully. The ascending eastern sun had shone down far enough to put a section of stone into deep shadow—to a cave, perhaps? There were multiple ledges all the way up—a perfect staircase, almost. It was still a near-vertical climb, but didn't look too difficult to scale. Brimming with determination, the prince led the way up, his knights not far behind. Lancelot brought a torch from the saddlebags.

After several sincere apologies as chunks of rock, loosened by his feet, crumbled away to painfully pepper the other climbers below, Arthur finally grasped the ledge of the cave entrance and heaved himself onto it—only to gag as a sickly sweet, rancid stench of decay bombarded his nostrils, making him retch. He threw an arm across his face, swallowing bile, as Lancelot and Gwaine rolled onto the ledge with him. They blanched as well.

"How the hell did we not smell this earlier?" Lancelot grunted, waving a hand before his nose.

Arthur stepped into the cave. Cautious, he didn't speak louder than a forced whisper as he called for his servant. "_Merlin? Merlin, you in there?_"

Gwaine shoved past him. "HELLOOO?"_ ...Ellooo...llo...oh...? _

Arthur gave the knight a flat look.

Lancelot passed them both, the torch in hand. He crouched and snapped two stones together. A spark ignited the tar tip of the torch, and a flame was born. He led the way into the darkness.

**† † †**

Within half a dozen paces, Lancelot halted, stiffening.

Arthur came up from behind. "What's wrong?" And then he, too, stopped and went rigid.

"What, you ladies afraid of the dark?" Gwaine stepped past them, only to find out the problem the hard way. Grimacing, the ruffian knight lifted his foot. A viscous slime coated his boot, and made a squelching sound as he pulled free.

"Least we know what the smell is now," said Arthur grimly, pointedly ignoring the gunk and moving onward.

"What could have done this?" Lancelot wondered aloud. "...Lord, if Merlin is in here..."

Arthur suddenly doubled his pace, failing to hide his overflowing distress. "Merlin? Where are you, you idiot?" Now the walls, and not just the floor, of the cave had slime smeared all over. It was a mixture of brown and green, and was little thicker than nose mucus. The prince didn't let that faze him, and he hastened into the shadows, bellowing for his servant, until he could no more.

The boogie-like substance became too sticky for him to continue, and his feet got stuck despite his struggles. He growled in frustration as Gwaine and Lancelot, too, were snared.

"Okay," Gwaine grunted, unsticking one foot and using the other knight to keep his balance. "I am _officially_ sick of caves and darkness."

"Retreat," Arthur snapped. "Get back." Helping each other, they managed to yank one another to safer grounds. The prince was overwhelmed by fury and frustration. "Goddammit! _Where is he?_" _Where is he...is he...he...?_

"Arthur." Lancelot was staring at the cave wall. Then he suddenly dropped the torch, turned away and covered his mouth as his empty stomach clenched. Nothing came up.

Gwaine supported the sickened knight as Arthur picked up the torch and investigated the wall. He paled at his findings.

A body was wrapped in the snotty muck like a cocoon, and plastered to the cave wall. It would have been impossible to discern from the rest of the cave if a few fingers hadn't been sticking out, or if the whole face was covered and not just bits and pieces of it. The features of the face were unmistakable.

"Hell's teeth. _Merlin._"

* * *

><p><strong>Ew. xP<strong>

**I'm open to criticism! :D**


	8. It Came from the Dark

~8~ It Came from the Dark

Merlin didn't stir, even when his name was repeated and his slimy prison shaken. It was impossible to check his pulse from under the gunk, but his face was warm, and that gave the companions hope that he yet lives.

"Come on. Let's him down," said Arthur, sticking the butt-end of the torch upright on the sticky floor. After that, he was at a loss of where to start.

"There's more of them," Gwaine said grimly. He was looking at the other cocoon-like figures on the walls, and there were indeed other bodies, corpses long dead and rotten, and difficult to differentiate from the slime.

"There's nothing we can do for them. Help me!" Arthur drew a dagger and started slicing away at Merlin's prison. The sticky, elastic-like substance resisted the blade stubbornly.

The other two men followed suit, with little more success. "Let's try pulling him free," said Gwaine. "Knives aren't working; just use brute strength—you know: _arrg!_" The knight tried to act out with his invigorating words, but he couldn't grasp on properly to the cocoon, so the display was pretty anticlimactic.

Lancelot started to dig his hand into the muck, grimacing in disgust, and his fingers eventually broke through until his forearm was behind Merlin's back. "Maybe—" he grunted, "we can pry him out."

In addition, Arthur started to peel away layers, small pieces, of the prison, thinning it. Bit by icky bit, they worked the manservant free.

The prince eventually yanked off a large chunk from across Merlin's chest, and the youth slumped forward. Arthur caught him. He tugged him loose of the last bits of the cocoon and placed him gently on the ground, before shaking him in an effort to revive him.

Merlin's chest was rising and falling, to their great relief, but it was slow, as though he were sleeping.

"Sleeping, eh?" said Gwaine, unstrapping something from his waistband. "Well, there are a few ways one can wake a man from his beauty rest—" He upended his water skin over Merlin's face just as Arthur stood in protest. Merlin's eyes shot open and he sputtered water from his mouth. Gwaine's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Wow. That actually worked."

Merlin gazed at them all vacantly for a while, but eventually he focused, and his look became relieved, and then terrified.

"Out! _Get out!_"

"Merlin—" Arthur kept the servant down on his back. "Calm down. What's the matter?"

"There's something in here! We have to go, _now!_"

Before Merlin had finished speaking, Lancelot had straightened and both he and Gwaine had drawn their swords in precaution.

"What? What's in here?" Arthur demanded, glancing up and down the tunnel.

"The Olitiau."

"...The what?"

"_Please_, we must _go!_"

"Alright, then. Get up." Arthur helped Merlin sit upright, but when he tried to stand him up, the servant crashed back down. "Come on, use your feet!"

"...I can't."

"What?"

"...Arthur, I can't feel my legs."

The prince froze, then glanced at the knights in alarm. Back at Merlin, he said, deadly calm, "You mean...you can't feel this?" He grabbed the servant's foot and shook it.

"No." It was obvious that Merlin was trying to rein in his rising panic. "You...you must leave me here. Go, before it comes back."

"We're not leaving you here, idiot." Arthur hooked his arms under Merlin's armpits from behind, and started to hull him upwards.

"Don't be a prat. Get out!" Merlin's struggles were feeble.

"Gwaine, help me."

_Aaaw-thaaah..._

Merlin choked. "It's coming_—get outta here!_"

_Leeeave him, Aaaw-thaaah..._

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_" Arthur snapped, but at Merlin or the voice he wasn't sure.

"Down!" Lancelot tackled them all at once, and over the tangle of legs and arms something slashed through the space they once occupied. By the flickering light of the torch, that something resembled a tail.

"Here we go again," Arthur muttered.

Lancelot was the first to stand, and he placed himself between the Olitiau and his companions, sword at the ready. "Get Merlin out of here!" he yelled, and swung his blade through the shadows. Gwaine picked up the torch and stood beside the knight, and the creature was thrown into light.

At first, it appeared to be a giant, man-sized bat, but it was grotesque, and had humanoid legs. Its leaf-shaped ears twitched as it assessed the travellers, and its amber eyes narrowed at them. Sticky saliva drooled from gaping jaws. Bat wings, leathery membrane stretched across elongated skeletal fingers, filled the whole tunnel. Behind it lashed a whip-like tail, tipped by two curved barbs. Stingers.

"_Yeesh_, you're _ugly_," Gwaine grunted, and swung the torch. The Olitiau hissed, head flinching back, and then it lunged forward, spitting. A glob of mucus splattered across Gwaine's arm. "Yuck!"

Lancelot stabbed at the colossal bat, forcing it to retreat a step. The Olitiau replied with a tail slash.

"Don't let it sting you!"

The knight ducked under the barbs with Merlin's cry, and then tried to cut the tail with his sword, but it was too fast.

"Gwaine, go!" Lancelot retreated after the ruffian knight, not turning his back on the Olitiau. Gwaine helped Arthur carry Merlin as Lancelot covered them. They fled as quickly as possible, but the monster easily kept pace, refusing to lose its prey.

"Go! Move it!" Eventually sunlight was visible in the cave, and that was all the companions needed to redouble their pace. But so did the Olitiau, until the light became too unbearable. With a hiss, it backed into the dark, and the travellers were out at last in the late-morning sun, which shone into the ravine from the east.

"Wait! Don't leave me here!"

They all skidded to a halt at the sound of the young girl's sobs.

"Help me, please!"

"Don't listen to it!" Merlin yelled. The others looked at him incredulously.

"Merlin, there's someone trapped in there. We have to do something." Lancelot approached the cave.

"No! It's lying to you. It's just a voice! Get away—"

Lancelot grunted as the double-barbed tail lashed out from the darkness and clawed across his defending hand, drawing blood. His sword fell limply. Gwaine lunged forward to pull the other knight back from the tunnel entrance, dropping Merlin's legs to do so. Arthur was thrown off-balance. The prince began to fall back off the narrow ledge just as the Olitiau burst from the cave in a flurry of wings, eyes shut against the light. It collided with the knights, wrapped its wings around Lancelot, and knocked them all over the edge.

"_Mörĭ!_" Merlin cursed as he fell, and the Olitiau squealed once before a horrible cracking rang through the air. Then the warlock tumbled down the ravine, hit his head, and was enveloped in warm darkness.

**† † †**

Dusk was falling when he opened his eyes. Small pinpricks of light were viewed from the slit of the ravine far above. They were so beautiful, he forgot, just for a moment, that his head was throbbing like a drum and his body was bruised black and blue. Well, his top half was; his legs were still numb and immobile.

Groaning, Merlin rolled onto his front and felt his pounding skull, only to find his face right in someone's foot. He recognized it as Arthur's, who was still unconscious. Grunting in pain, Merlin grabbed the prince's boot and shook it. "Hey, dollop-head. You okay?" Arthur moaned, and opened his eyes a crack. They looked about sightlessly for a few seconds before shutting again. Merlin shook him harder. "Look. You've got to stay awake." Nothing.

The warlock rolled back, rested for several more minutes, and then glanced to his other side—only to flinch as he saw the Olitiau staring at him.

No, it wasn't staring at him. It was dead, amber eyes glazed over. It was on its back, splintered wings spread out to the sides, and its jaws, sticky with bile and blood, were gaped open. Judging by the position of its head, its neck was broken.

On a lower ledge, Lancelot, unconscious, was being moved to a better location by a grim-faced Gwaine. The ruffian knight unscrewed a cap from a water skin and splashed it over Lancelot, and he woke instantly.

"Rise and shine, m'lady," said Gwaine, and turned to Merlin. He didn't seem surprised to see him awake. He wandered over and nudged the warlock's leg with his foot. "You feel that?"

Merlin almost shook his head, sick, but he blinked as he felt a slight numb twinge in his calf. "Wait..." Yes, he was definitely feeling something. "I...I think I can..." But no, he still couldn't move his feet. He stared flatly at the Olitiau. "It stung me last night. I remember losing the feeling in both legs, and then suddenly getting very drowsy."

Gwaine nodded tiredly. "Yeah, and it appears Lancelot was in the same predicament." He helped the knight sit up, and grasped his arm. There were two black punctures, a couple inches apart, on the back of Lancelot's hand, surrounded by raw red flesh, and ringed by purple.

"I can't move my arm," Lancelot grunted, gritting his teeth. "Damn, that hurts."

Gwaine glanced over at Merlin. "Where were you stung?"

"My lower back, here." The warlock flinched as he reached behind himself and touched the punctures. They burned deeply. "Ow."

"Turn over." Gwaine leaped lightly onto the ledge and lifted Merlin's shirt, still encrusted in some of the mucus cocoon, to inspect the wound. "Yeah, the very same. Yours looks less red, though. I hope that means it's healing. Thirsty?" Standing, the knight jumped back off the ledge and kicked the Olitiau carelessly in the head on his way along the ravine. A couple minutes later he returned with a full water skin. "Had to picket the horses down a ways. They couldn't stand the smell. And guess what? I found yours, too! It was wandering a bit down there, calm as you please." He helped Merlin sit up and gave him the water, just as Arthur woke once more, grunting and holding his head.

As the prince, too, sat up, he nodded once at Merlin, who did the same in turn. That was gratitude given and received.

"You seem to know about this monster, Merlin," said Lancelot. "Why did it, you know...?" The knight trailed off.

Merlin drank from the water skin before passing it to Arthur. "Olitiau are solitary, deceitful creatures that lure prey by sounds. I don't know too much about them, but I do know that they paralyse with one stinger, and put victims to sleep with the other. Then they use spit to wrap the prey up like a cocoon, and wait a few days before eating it." Merlin was staring into nothing while his spoke, but he, too, paled at the memory and the 'what-ifs' that ran through his mind. "Apparently the pers—_prey_ tastes better after it has been...marinated...in the cocoon for a while."

Gwaine's eyes narrowed. "And...is the 'prey' still unconscious when the Olitiau start feeding?"

Merlin just stared at the knight, silent, and swallowed bile.

After a while, the stench of the dead monster started to prove too much, and they prepared to move. Merlin had a serious case of the jelly-legs, so they had to half-carry him to his horse. The picketed beasts' eyes were rolling in distress, for the rotting odour of the Olitiau clung to the knights and servant like a cloak. Especially Merlin, who was crusty with a thin layer of dried Olitiau spit. He knew he had quite a battle ahead of him in washing it all off.

Gwaine gave Merlin his horse for the ascent, given that the warlock's bay was without saddle and it wouldn't be logical for the man with little feeling in his legs to go bareback. Arthur had offered at first, but Smokie wouldn't let Merlin sit in the saddle without cringing away. Even though they all thought that peculiar, they let it go and concentrated solely on reaching the surface.

Despite their desire to get as far away as they could from the ravine, it was too dark to see much, and they would end up just breaking one of the horses' ankles in a hole. So they rebuilt the old camp fire, but this time, no one stayed awake for a watch.

The haunting voice winds had stopped, and never rose up again.

* * *

><p><strong>The name 'Olitiau' is not of my making. There is a fabled creature in Africa that is a giant bat, about the size of a dog, I think. My Olitiau isn't like that, I just used the name. Just so you know :)<strong>


	9. Ňocte'ĕquả!

**If there's somethin' strange...in the neighbourhood...who ya gonna call? **

**Merlin!**

* * *

><p>~9~ <em><span>Ňocte'ĕquả!<span>_

Gaius had finally stopped bothering to leap to the window every time he heard a scream or explosion of fire. Rubbing his leaden eyes, he focused on the small, faded print of the old tome, which was thicker than his hand was wide. He found himself reading and re-reading paragraphs as his exhausted mind wavered repeatedly. Despite the urgency to find out as much as he could, the lack of sleep was taking over, as it had the rest of the people of Camelot.

_Archons were best known for their tendency of being fickle_, Gaius read, _and that inconstancy wasn't always for the better. Born of the Ancient Kingdom, or the Time of Prophecy, they were the gods of the people, the lords of every civilization. For some, their goal was to protect the common folk and help them thrive. Others cared not for the lower lives and concerned themselves with themselves. The last had intentions that will hopefully never be re-birthed into this world. These included the fabled five Knights of Apocalypse._

_Together, these horsemen were dreaded more than anything in the world. Even the other Archons were wary of them. They were the bane of life itself, and their objective was to eliminate existence wherever they could—perhaps because they could never truly possess it themselves? _There was a section too faded to read, then: _They have many names unknown to us, in languages other than the Old Religion's. _Caedeşqụe_ was the lord of bloodshed and violence, which he whispered into the hearts of man to encourage hostility towards each other. _Halosĭs_ was _Caedeşqụe_'s closest companion, as he was conquest, and he enjoyed watching great civilizations fall over the whim of a war-hungering tyrant. _Fąmem_ rode far and wide on his horse of black to spread his pestilence to the furthest reaches of the world. _Môrtęm_, kin to Lord Death itself, followed them all, taking the souls lost from war, violence, and starvation, and causing his own chaos whenever he had the inkling, whether it was deserved or not. Finally, there was Fear, known as _Mėtû_. Along with _Môrtęm_, his existence had begun with the dawn of time and life, and shall be there until the dusk. _

Gaius re-read the passage before leaning back in his chair and interlocking his fingers had heard of Archons, of course, but was never sure if he believed in them. The Ancient Kingdom had come before the time of the Old Religion, though he knew not how it had fallen.

The aged physician turned a few pages as he heard a shrill scream just outside. He passed a page with the drawing of a, inverted pentagram, a circled star, and landed on a sheet with a picture that filled the whole space. He studied it closely.

Five lone-standing archways stood at the points of a large pentagram which was carved into the ground. The two closest archways appeared empty, but the other three, the three facing him, had horrific sketches of grisly horsemen struggling to get through invisible barriers. Flipping the page, Gaius found a description, and didn't like what he read.

_Though dethroned and restrained, the Archons had never fallen dormant like the Druids had thought. Some have accepted the passing of their time, but others, like the Knights, have not._

_It is not known how it was done, but centuries ago, the five dark Archons had managed to convince a Mage to create portals for them in exchange for vast, limitless power. With their aid, the Mage obliged, eagerly following their commands. In his city of Mitheras, he conjured the pentagram from evil forces, and then the five archways to break through the barrier between two worlds._

_There are many legends that spin off in different directions from here. Most speak of an enemy of the Mage preventing him from finishing the deed, but nearly destroyed Mitheras in the process. Others say the incantations the Mage gave were incorrect or wrongly used and they backfired, again bringing the city to ruin. The last state that the Mage refused, was unable, or was suddenly overcome by cowardice and did not continue. Whatever truly happened, why the Archons were not released, humankind will never know, for none now live who remember._

Again, Gaius leaned back in his seat, this time sighing in resignation. He should have convinced Merlin to stay in the city; there was no doubt in his mind now that Mitheras was indeed the root of Camelot's current crisis, or rather, something _from_ Mitheras.

The city was tearing itself apart in terror. The nightmares had gotten to the point that people have been driven mad. Anyone still in their right minds have been impelled into hiding, or struggle to find the courage to lock up anyone dangerous. Fights were common on the streets, between soldiers and farmers, children and parents. Animals were slaughtered in fear of them taking over the city, according to insane blacksmiths and tanners. Fires broke out everywhere as people burned the monsters hiding under their beds and in their closets. Some clawed out their own eyes in order to stop seeing the horrors of their personal night demons. They were unsuccessful, so they killed themselves if they weren't protected by family members.

Gaius heard one of his patients groan and stood to care for the man, who had nearly died in one of the fires. As he did so, there was a knock on his door and Gwenevere entered, leading a young girl by the hand.

"Her parents are dead," said Gwen, weariness softening her words. In the unfamiliar surroundings, the child hugged Gwen's leg and refused to let go. "I can't find anywhere else to keep her."

"I'm running out of room, Gwen," replied Gaius grimly. "But perhaps we can accommodate one more. Food is starting to get scarce, and so are blankets. We're going to have to be extra careful."

Gwen could hear the stress in his words. "Arthur and Merlin _will_ find a way, Gaius. I know it. There's no need to worry."

"I'm afraid I am having difficulty sharing your optimism, my dear," said the physician. "Even if they do find a solution soon, it may still be too late for Camelot."

**† † †**

When he woke up the next morning, Merlin felt he could jump a mile. During the day's travel north to find the bridge across the ravine, Lancelot flexed his fingers, satisfied. The puncture wounds had reduced to a dull ache and were easily ignored. All in all, the outcome of the fight was very good, at least for the travellers.

On the second night from the ravine, after a dinner of grouse and some tiny carrots Merlin managed to scavenge, Gwaine and Arthur wasted no time in closing their eyes. The last few days had taken their tole, for the prince had wanted to catch up on a day's missed travel. Lancelot, however, stayed awake with Merlin on the warlock's watch, the first of the evening.

The knight and the servant lay on their backs a little ways from the fire, staring up at the stars.

"How do you think the others are doing?" Merlin asked softly.

Lancelot chuckled. "I hope a _hell_ of a lot better than we are."

**Φ**

_Arthur fled. The ravenous fires raged in pursuit, sucking the air from his lungs and blinding him with its cloudy breath. Everywhere he turned, he saw more howling flame demons leaping for him. He couldn't escape._

**Φ**

Arthur grunted from by the fire, and rolled over in his sleep. Merlin tried to ignore him. Like Lancelot said, too much will eventually prove chaotic for him if they keep seeing him save them in their dreams. And every night, it was becoming harder and harder to yank his companions from their nightmares, as though the dreams were fighting back. It was a disease becoming immune to his cure.

"Well, can it _really_ get any worse?" said the warlock. "We've seen and been through a whole lot already – I don't think _anything_ can surprise me now."

"Be careful of what you say," warned Lancelot. "The road is yet long."

Merlin sighed, and looked at the moon, mostly in shadow. "I believe it's shorter than we both realize."

Gwaine blurted someone's name and shifted, his face pained. Arthur, too, refused to remain still and silent.

**Φ**

_He saw others fleeing the glutenous flames, but none of them were fast enough to get away. They ran, screaming, from between burning trees, clothes and flesh aflame. Arthur saw knights and soldiers, peasants and farmers, women and children, all fiery. All dying._

_Tears filled his eyes, but they evaporated quickly from his cheeks. As he bolted, dodging flaming bushes and branches, he saw his father, King Uther, step out in front of him and fall to his knees. He said something before being swallowed by fire._

_Arthur screamed for his father, but the King was already gone. The prince kept running, and saw Gwaine trying to fight off three fire-engulfed soldiers with his bare fists. He died quickly. Lancelot was charging on a horse across a clearing, lance in hand, aimed at a gryphon of flame. The lance disintegrated into ashes and the gryphon enveloped the knight with its wings. He did not emerge. _

_And then Arthur saw Gwenevere, sprinting towards him, crying. Before she reached him, she fell down a chasm that opened beneath her feet. She screamed and vanished. Arthur howled in anguish._

**Φ**

"The curse should have worn off by now," muttered Merlin, brow furrowed. "Even with the Phoenix Feather, Morgana wouldn't dare curse an entire country."

Lancelot yawned, but shook himself awake. "To be honest, I don't think there's _anything_ she won't do to get what she craves...Merlin?"

The warlock was watching the companions struggle with their night monsters.

"Merlin, you know it's too risky."

"What's one more night?" the youth asked, sitting up. "Arthur didn't even mention seeing me yesterday. Probably because he didn't. Remember the bandits? We really don't have much choice, Lancelot."

"Wait a moment—"

But Merlin had already rolled into a crouch and crept towards the prince. In the shadows, a horse whickered with unease and snorted. Ignoring the beast, Merlin spread an open palm over Arthur's face.

"_Vadĕ nočtũrno timőr._"

**Φ**

_Looking down the chasm on his hands and knees, he saw nothing but darkness. He thought that the raging fire should have given enough light to see down, but it wasn't. Gwen was gone._

"_Arthur!"_

_He straightened, still on his knees, and glanced around sluggishly. _Let the fire take me_, he thought. _I've had enough.

"_Arthur!"_

_Why was he surprised to see Merlin emerging from the smoke? The man, after all, had always been by his side, loyal and trustworthy. A good friend._

_Arthur tried to speak, but Merlin just reached down, helped him stand, and then half-led, half-carried him towards safety—wherever that was._

"_Merlin."_

"_Hold on, clotpole."_

_But suddenly the servant dropped him to the ground. Caught by surprise, the prince landed on his front, and turned over just in time to see Merlin face an incoming figure on horseback. Arthur recognized the dark knight on his great grey horse, Smokie, but something seemed...off, and felt terribly wrong._

**Φ**

"_V_-_vadĕ n-n-no—_"

Lancelot frowned as the servant suddenly became rigid. "Hey..." He could only see Merlin's silhouette before the fire, but could tell that the warlock had started to shake violently. "Merlin? _Merlin!_"

**Φ**

_The servant pointed at the dark knight and yelled something menacingly in a strange tongue. Abruptly, the grey mare squealed, and Merlin cringed, holding his head._

"_Emrys._ Męa ňomĕn Mėtû,"_ toned the dark knight deeply. _"Ḧaec ėşt Ňocte'ĕquả."

_With a cry, Merlin was kicked in the chest and knocked down onto his back by flailing hooves._

"Ňocte'ĕquả!"

_As the mare reared dangerously, her flesh withered and dulled. Her eyes sank into her skull and her lips curled back to reveal rotten teeth. Her scream became an unnatural wail as she trampled Merlin into the ground._

"_ŇOCŦE'ĔQŲÀ!"_

**Φ**

"_Merlin!_"

Arthur sat up abruptly, crying the warlock's name, just as Lancelot grabbed Merlin's shoulder and pulled him away from the prince. Merlin's hand was clamped down over his mouth and nose, and his eyes were screwed shut, as though in pain.

"What's happening? What's wrong?" Lancelot demanded, and saw something dark seep between the warlock's fingers. Throat closing, he tried to pry Merlin's hand away from his face to investigate, but the servant squirmed away and stumbled to his feet. He only made three clumsy paces before falling to his hands and knees, and then he vomited.

As the manservant heaved again, clutching his stomach with one arm, Arthur scrambled from his bed roll and crashed down beside him. He grabbed the back of Merlin's shirt before the warlock pitched forward into his own sick, and turned him over. He paled at the sight of blood gushing from his friend's nose.

"What's the matter? Did he eat something rancid?" asked Gwaine, startled awake by the commotion, as Lancelot grabbed bandages from the saddlery to soak up the blood.

"Yeah, and _smashed his nose in the process!_" Arthur snapped, but felt guilty immediately after his harsh words. "I don't know what's wrong. What kind of illness would do this to a man?"

"Not an infection? From the Olitiau sting?" asked Lancelot, cleaning up Merlin's face. He brought up the warlock's limp hand to pinch his own nose shut and stop the flow. Unresponsive, Merlin's arm fell slack and more blood dripped down his face. The knight had to hold the servant's hand in place.

"I don't know. Maybe," muttered Arthur. He shook Merlin absentmindedly. He could not banish the image of his recent nightmare from his head. The vision of his servant being trampled to death refused to leave his mind. And seeing him bleed profusely now... "Hey, what's wrong with you? Did you eat undercooked grouse or something?"

Merlin murmured a few sounds, but said nothing intelligible. In the shadows, horses squealed and whinnied in distress.

"We should take him to the nearest village," said Gwaine. "They'll have a healer or physician."

Arthur glanced at the knight. "That seems to be the best choice." He looked back at his manservant. "We—" He froze. Merlin's eyes were open and staring straight into his. "...Merlin?"

The warlock glanced around as though in confusion, and then sat up, frowning. "What happened?"

"You...you were ill," said Lancelot, bewildered. "And your nose was bleeding. Don't you remember?"

Merlin touched the blood drenching his lower face. "Not...really. Sort of. I thought I was dreaming." He pulled away as Arthur felt his forehead for fever and checked his pulse. "I'm fine now, thank you very much."

"How can you be? You were bleeding dry and puking your guts out a second ago."

"Yeah, and now I'm tired and hungry. We have any grouse left?"

* * *

><p><strong>If there's somethin' weird...and it don' look good...who ya gonna call?<strong>

**Merlin!**

**So some of you may be saying, "Hey, I know that story! But it's ****_Horsemen_**** of the Apocalypse, not Knights. And there aren't five, but four." Yes, I know that. I just gave a little twist to the story. Mėtû, Fear, is my own creation ~ fear can be just as chaotic as violence, conquest, famine, and death, don't you think? Then there's the pentagram, the circled star which many recognize as the symbol of Satan. All evil stuff. Our favourite whippersnappers are wandering into something more perilous and dire than they can imagine. Stay with them, mates, stay until the end. They'll need the support. **

**:D**


	10. Mitheras

~10~ Mitheras

"Mitheras should be around here somewhere," Arthur muttered softly into the map. The day after the baffling episode of Merlin's brief illness, they had reached roads seldom used, overgrown by foliage. "There should be stone bridge to cross, and then..."

Merlin, head lolling back, snored once and jerked awake. Gwaine splashed water over his face from his water skin, and Lancelot yawned, not bothering to cover up.

"You said that _five miles ago_, Arthur," Gwaine grumbled, wiping his eyes.

"Yeah. Are we there yet?" Merlin grinned.

With a glare at his servant, Arthur buried his nose in the parchment again. "It can't be far now." He blinked and widened his eyes to force down his fatigue. "Can't b-be—" He yawned, and snapped, crunching the map in his fists. "For _godssake!_ What I wouldn't do for some bloody _rest!_"

Gwaine took a halfhearted shot with his sling at a pheasant as it fluttered from the bushes in an explosion of wings, but he missed by several feet. The pebble ricocheted off a tree and hit Merlin in the jaw.

"Ooh, _so_ close," Gwaine said sleepily, oblivious to the warlock's grunt of pain and annoyance.

It wasn't until a while later that Merlin was able to talk to Lancelot about the troubles of the other night. He and the knight were riding twenty paces behind the other two, and they felt isolated enough to talk.

"It was like something was repelled me, and then trapped me. I couldn't do anything, not even retreat," Merlin said softly, still fearing of being overheard. "I thought something was trying to keep me away, but it punished me first for meddling. I had to...go _into_ the dream to fetch Arthur out, which is so unlike anything I've ever had to do before. It was the longest time I've ever seen another's nightmare with my own eyes." He shuddered. "It was bloody awful."

"What _did_ you see?"

Merlin avoided Lancelot's gaze, and focused on a thrush singing away the evening. He couldn't tell the man what he saw, could he? What would the knight think if he said, "Oh, yeah, mate. I saw Smokie the horse looking like a half-rotten corpse, ridden by a man in black armour called _Mėtû _who was screaming, '_Ňocte'ĕquả_—_!_'"

It hit him then. And he felt like slapping himself for not realizing it earlier.

Smokie had been won from the dark knight weeks ago by Arthur, before the nightmares haunted the halls and souls of Camelot. Merlin had sensed tainted tendrils in the horse's essence, but never truly gave it any thought. Even when the beast yelled his _vërum nσmί_, his true name, so long ago, he just...

And the village. All was well and swell before they'd arrived – before they came with the steel-coated mare. The _Ňocte'ĕquả_. The Night Mare.

"Saints alive," Merlin whispered, heart thudding.

"Oi, men!" Arthur yelled over his shoulder. "I've found the bridge! Pick up the pace!"

"Arthur, wait a moment—" Merlin kicked his bay's ribs, but the stubborn beast snorted and tossed its head in refusal. "Hold on!" He kicked again, harder, and the bay moved into a clumpy trot. Arthur and Gwaine were just rounding the corner, vanishing from sight. "I said _wait a second!_" Merlin roared, and smacked his horse's rump. Grumbling, the beast finally bounded into a loping canter.

Lancelot hard on his heels, Merlin rounded the bend after his companions, to see them crossing a stone, moss-swarmed bridge.

"Arthur! Get off Smokie!"

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "Merlin, are you mad? What—" Suddenly, the mare stopped and went as taunt as a bow string. "Something's wrong with this horse," the prince muttered as she ignored the nudging of his boots.

"It isn't a horse! _Get off!_"

"Merlin—" Arthur was silenced as the mare suddenly started to toss her head, turn in circles and kick out violently. Merlin's bay skidded to a halt, refusing to approach the mad horse.

The prince was helpless. Even as he tried to curb the beast, Smokie twisted her head and tore the reins right from his hands with her teeth, and galloped down the road.

Merlin gave the bay the hardest slap in the haunches yet, and, with a whinny, the beast was off, after the Night Mare, ears flat.

"What the hell is going on?" Lancelot demanded, galloping beside Merlin.

"It's a trap, _all _of it! We must stop that—that—_thing!_" He dug his heels into the bay's sides once more and gave a loud, "_Ya!_"

Gwaine wheeled his steed about, back onto the road. It had danced away when Smokie went berserk, but now it bolted down the path after the others. It surpassed Merlin's bay and Lancelot's chestnut, though it was clear none of them would be able to catch the Night Mare.

The trail got worse and worse as they continued. Old branches and roots endangered every stride, threatening to entangle a hoof and send the rider flying. Yet they pushed on regardless, bending their concentration on saving their prince.

Merlin's eyes watered as a branch whipped him across the face, but he shook his head and bowed lower over the bay's pounding neck. He could only just see a blur of grey down the path, which faded with every galloping pace. "No, no, _no_."

Suddenly, they burst into a clearing. Hooves clopped over ancient cobblestones as the racing companions craned their necks to see the top of the tall, crumbling battlements of Mitheras. Arthur was clinging to Smokie's saddle for dear life as the beast charged across an old drawbridge over a moat, and through the castle's jaw that was the rusted portcullis.

The portcullis began to close after the prince.

The pursuing comrades were thirty paces away...twenty-five...they weren't going to make it...twenty...it was halfway closed...fifteen...ten—

"_Firmąe__ tenēnt!_"

With the screech of old machinery, the portcullis ground to a halt. The riders flattened themselves against their horses and _just_ skimmed through. As Lancelot passed under last, Merlin released the magic, and the gate fell with a loud _clang!_

Gwaine stopped and glanced back at the portcullis, puzzled. The other two did their best to appear equally stunned.

"That was weird," said Lancelot, looking anywhere but Gwaine and focusing on their surroundings.

The first thing they noticed was the silence. There were no people, no dogs, cats, or even birds. The empty, abandoned courtyard they stood in was pale and cold. In the centre was a weathered statue of a man holding a halberd, his once noble face unrecognizable to the travellers. The courtyard was surrounded by a crumbling wall, and three paths left the area through archways. Even though they listened hard, they could not hear the clopping hooves of the Night Mare, and so couldn't tell where the creature had taken Arthur. They chose the middle archway, moving at a cautious trot.

The going did not get better. The buildings they passed made the courtyard seem a garden of flowers. Devoid of colour, the sad houses and other structures loomed over them sorrowfully, groaning and creaking in pain. Shreds of cloth in windows and doorways wavered in the breeze like mourner veils. Two miles away, a dark, rectangular tower dominated the horizon beneath the grey sky of thunderheads.

They passed a dead tree blackened by fire and age. It was impossible to tell what kind of tree it once was, but it was still strong enough to hold the gibbet, which swung gently from one branch. The occupier was, of course, long deceased, a boney arm stretched out for aid that never came. The gibbet continued to creak sadly from the tree as the companions hasted on.

An invisible force prevented Merlin from calling out for the kidnapped prince. It was a different force than the one that would prevent a rock from being thrown into a calm, tranquil pool. It was also separate from the will to not speak in a silent cathedral. This was a different power, an oppression, which was pushed upon by the dead city of Mitheras, one that he wouldn't dare—

"_Aaaarrthuuuuur!_"

—But apparently, Gwaine had other boundaries.

The echoing bellow made no difference, however, except to startle the already tense horses. Their eyes rolled to show whites, and their ears never relaxed despite the soothing pats the riders gave them as they came to a town square.

The square, as dismal as the rest of the city, split into three other streets. In the centre was a large rectangular well.

"Thirsty anyone?" asked Gwaine cheerfully.

A strange feeling of being too exposed encouraged the knights to kick their steeds into a canter, but before Merlin followed suit, he leaned over and looked down into the abyss of the well. It was darker than pitch, and there was a steady drip reverberating up the stone sides. When an explosive splash sounded from the shadows of the shaft, Merlin kicked his horse so hard, it squeaked as it bounded after the knights.

Thunder roiled overhead, and the bay abruptly stopped again despite Merlin's edging. "Come on, you stubborn..."

"_Wyvern!_"

Hairs on the back of his neck stood to see which was longest as the screeching wail of wyvern filled the air, and six dragon-like creatures swarmed overhead. They dove down at the riders, howling hungrily. Lancelot was immediately knocked from his horse, his drawn sword sent flying.

"Lancelot, no!" Gwaine roared helplessly as the brave knight was snatched up by a screaming wyvern and carried into the air. Another creature followed the first, biting and clawing to grab the prize for itself. They flew for the looming tower, shrieking.

Merlin's bay bucked in terror, and made to bolt, but the warlock forced the beast to aim towards Gwaine, who was fighting off two more wyvern.

"Get out of here, Merlin!" Gwaine bellowed, as his panicking horse died with a single tail slash from an attacking monster. The knight jumped free of the saddle, but was grabbed from behind by greedy demi-dragon claws.

"_No!_"

Merlin stood in the stirrups to grasp for Gwaine's hands and feet as the ruffian was dragged into the sky overhead, but he caught nothing but wind, and the knight was lifted away after the first, snapping insults all the way.

Merlin latched on to the saddle pommel as the bay hurtled over the corpse of Gwaine's white, and then galloped down a main street.

With the teeth-grinding wail of a wyvern, Merlin glanced over his shoulder and saw them in hot pursuit. One swooped, claws outstretched, and the warlock ducked, before yanking on the reins to the right and galloping into a second road. Two wyvern collided as they attempted to turn sharply in the air, but the third bypassed them and dove at Merlin, jaws gaping.

Merlin felt the inherited, commanding voice of the Dragonlord within swell like a flame, and he turned in the saddle, opening his mouth, eyes flashing gold: "_Wyvern! Yr wyf yn Emrys! Wyf yn gorchymyn_—_!_"

His horse tripped.

With a small cry, Merlin flew face first to the road and tumbled uncontrollably. His horse somersaulted, squealing, and then scrambled to its feet, eyes lolling. Before the warlock could do anything, it bolted away in a flurry of hooves. Then a wyvern dropped from the sky and pinned Merlin to the ground.

Hot breath gusted into the warlock's face as the monster roared in triumph, his chest crushing under the wyvern's weight. His heart leaped as he felt the talons start to wrap around him, and the beast's wings spread to pump into the air.

"_Rhyddhau i mi!_"

Hissing submissively, the wyvern ducked its head, folded its wings and released the Dragonlord. The others fell back in meek, reluctant obedience as well, baring teeth but acknowledging the warlock's power.

"_Mynd._"

With final grumbles of malcontent, the wyvern opened their wings and took to the skies. As they disappeared behind the rooftops, more thunder boiled through the clouds, threatening rain.

Merlin was alone.

**† † †**

The wind whispered maliciously behind his back as he turned in a circle, unsure of what to do. The right thing would be to go to the tower, of course. But alone? Unarmed? Well, there was nothing to be done about his solitude, but he was never, ever, _truly_ unarmed. As though in encouragement, magic spread its warm wings within his chest and gave a gentle push.

After a couple hesitant steps, Merlin broke into a strong jog, and made confidently for the dark tower. With no weapon, no horse, no plan – just sheer determination.

_Being smart is just as important as being brave_, he had said once. Well, sometimes what's _right_ outstrips what's important.

* * *

><p><strong>Rough Latin translations:<br>nocte equa: night mare (there was no actual translation for 'nightmare' that I could find)  
>verum nomi: true name<br>firmae tenent: hold steady**

**_Extremely_**** rough Welsh translations (it's Google Translate~what can I say?):  
>Yr wyf yn Emrys! Wyf yn gorchymyn—: I am Emrys! I command—<br>Rhyddhau i mi: Release me  
>Mynd: go<strong>

**Grr, still days away until the next Merlin episode! (grits teeth, jumps around impatiently...stops) ...but...there are so few eps left... D8**


	11. You Can Run

~11~ You Can Run...

"Where is he? Where is the fourth?"

Wyvern, though not the brightest of creatures, could still detect the disappointed rage radiating from the sorceress of the Phoenix Feather, and they quailed fearfully under her power.

With a wave of her hand, and a brush of the Feather, the miniature dragons took wing and circled high above the courtyard, within the tower's inner walls. Some roosted in the nests they had built in the ancient stone. They weren't so difficult to control once Morgana found out that they, like so many other animals of magic, were creatures and slaves of the Old Religion. With the aid of the Feather, she was able to convince their simple minds that she had the right to command them. It was the same with dryads and sprites, and other small mythical beings. She has yet to try it with anything else wild that was smarter than a wyvern, like a hippogryph or gryphon, and she wouldn't dare try it on a dragon. The Archons, however...

Their near-human minds and hunger for liberty and power easily kept them under Morgana's rein. Archons of the Ancient Kingdom came before the Old Religion, but if they were more powerful than the Religion, how is it that the latter came into being? Her views made her see that the Old Religion was simply stronger than the Archon's magic, and the Phoenix Feather would keep them around her finger forever. So far, her assumption was proving correct.

_Mėtû_ was a rebellious one, but with the Feather, she forced him to hold the defiance in check. Whether he knew what she was doing mattered little to her, only that he gave her complete and satisfactory obedience. Mordred, the druid boy, had warned her against this endeavour, but the sorceress pushed on regardless. His wariness prevented him from being with her now.

Morgana had given the Archons a promise, of course, that they would rule the land once more, as they did aeons ago. And they _will_ rule, just under her utmost command.

"Pointless creatures," Morgana sneered, staring up at the circling wyvern.

_Mėtû_ didn't reply. Reunited once more with his precious grey horse, his Night Mare, he remained mounted, and guarded the pentagram like a statue, his lance piercing the deepening sky_._

Morgana stared icily at him. "You wish all four of your brothers to be free. Bring me the boy, alive. Rough him up if you have to. Inflict pain. But for this to work, he must have a beating heart. Go, Archon."

Fear and the haunting _Ňocte'ĕquả_ finally shifted, mechanically turning towards the tower gates to do her bidding. As they went, _Mėtû_ flipped his lance and stuck it, point-down, into the earth, and then unstrapped the wiry river net from his waist belt. The servant boy had no chance.

As though tasting the soon-to-be-had freedom, the other Knights of the Apocalypse each changed position a little bit in their lonely archways, behind the wispy veils. As for Morgana, she could already feel the throne of Camelot within her grasp.

**† † †**

"_Noň dörmĭunt_." His limbs ceased to shake and his eyes lost the throbbing as he whispered those two words. Merlin felt energy trickle through him again, and he was able to resume his quick pace to the tower. With no fear of wyvern, he made quick progress, hindered by nothing but the winding streets and the occasional pile of rubble. He pushed himself to exhaustion, yet did not relent for more than a moment. The tower seemed to be ever distant despite his speed, and with every pace he felt hope fade—at least until he forced it back to full fire; however, it wasn't enough. He was still human, and so eventually, even with the aid of magic, Merlin collapsed against a building, chest heaving for air. Sleep wasn't the problem. It was all about stamina, which he felt he lacked too much before and now no longer had. Not for the first time did he wish his fool horse had held its ground instead of abandoning him.

As though on cue, he heard the steady clip-clop of heavy hooves on cobblestone. Merlin pushed himself away from the wall, glancing hopefully up and down the street. He saw nothing, but the sounds distinctively came from the direction of the tower, from the road just around the corner. Eagerly, he stepped onto the path and made for the sounds. He rushed around the bend—

—And skid to a halt as _Mėtû_ came into view, astride his demon horse.

Icy claws of fear squeezed his heart and chilled his blood. The dark knight Arthur had fought and triumphed over was unmistakable, and so was the Night Mare. The steel beast snorted and tossed her head with his scent, and a deep rumble rolled in her chest with distaste. She no longer had the sheen of a healthy beast, but was skinny and gaunt, her coat withered and lifeless. Her eyes were white voids, sunken into her skull. Merlin couldn't look away, and was frozen to the spot.

_Mėtû_ kneed his horse onward, towards the fear-locked man, and Merlin could not unscramble his hurricane of thoughts. Why was he so afraid? It is normal, of course, to be afraid, but not like this!

The knight closed the gab between them, but Merlin's legs refused to cooperate. Even as _Mėtû_, Fear, drew level and reached down to grasp him behind the neck, he couldn't escape. Not, at least, until the _Ňocte'ĕquả_ suddenly squealed and bit him.

Yelping, Merlin jumped back from the knight and the grey beast, grasping his nipped left arm. The Night Mare grumbled deep in her barrel and tossed her head up, teeth bared in hate. She reared, squealing, even as Fear pulled on the reins furiously to control her. Merlin ducked away and fled.

He just barely heard the contemptuous chuckle from _Mėtû_ as he slipped into a side alley and kicked up his heels. He felt his heart was fit to burst from terror, but as he distanced himself from the knight, the fog in his head dissipated and he could think clearly.

It was obvious now that _Mėtû_ is not just any ordinary man with an evil horse and dark intentions. There is a lot more to him than meets the eye, and Merlin intended to find out what. First, of course, he had to escape him.

No matter how he zigged or zagged down alleys and streets, the steady hoof beats echoed around him, taunting, terrifying. As he heard his pursuer close in behind him, he dodged into the nearest house and hid in the shadows beneath the front window.

Several moments passed as Merlin listened to the horse and rider draw abreast to his hideout. With one final stamp, the Night Mare halted not five paces from the window. She grumbled. Merlin peaked over the sill cautiously, holding his breath, eyes as wide as platters. Slowly, he slid down against the wall onto his rear, back to the window side. In the dark, he could make out a splintered desk, a one-legged table, and a thin, sad-looking bed. When the censer crept hissing from the shadows beside the bed, pincers clicking and stinger tail held threateningly, Merlin was at a loss for reaction – for a second, leastways.

With a cry, he jumped to his feet. The giant scorpion crept closer, pincers at the ready. Merlin dove for the door but tripped over the threshold. _Mėtû's_ net flashed overhead where he would had been if he hadn't gone sprawling into the dust.

Fearing the lethal sting of the censer, Merlin scrambled to his feet and once more took flight. He immediately heard _Mėtû_ right behind him. He rounded a corner and saw a very narrow space between two houses, too narrow for a horse. He slipped in and crouched behind a pile of torn roof shingles and other debris. Breathing heavily, he watched the entrance of the alley nervously.

_...Meerrrlliiiiinn_...

He didn't think his mouth could get any drier, or his heart race much faster. He was wrong.

The Olitiau crawled down the wall towards him from above, strings of sticky mucus drooling from gaping jaws of needle teeth. Merlin flattened himself against the ground and garbage pile as a drip of spit fell and landed on his cheek. Without feeling it, he brushed it away and scrambled upright. The Olitiau pounced down at him as he fled down the alley, but it hissed impatiently as its claws grabbed nothing but air.

_This isn't happening!_ Merlin thought as he left the back street – and nearly ran into Aredian the Witch Finder. The mendacious man reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "I don't deal with _sorcerers_," he sneered, smirking derisively and hoisting up a set of manacles. "It's time for you to confess."

"_Murderer!_" Merlin tore free of the lying snake's grasp and swung a fist at him. His knuckles pounded the wind. Aredian was gone.

Chest heaving for breath, Merlin turned in circles in puzzlement, but then, once more, high-tailed it up the street, towards the great tower.

He didn't really notice the fog until it completely surrounded him. And soon, it was too difficult to see around for more than ten paces. Even the tall tower was invisible. As though he was running in the dark, Merlin's instincts screamed at him to slow down, raise his arms and watch his feet. A louder voice ordered him to keep running at top speed, regardless of the danger. He listened to the latter, especially when many sets of hooves pounded over cobblestones, and the seven Knights of Medhir fell into pursuit. They were easy to evade, and soon Merlin left the fog behind as well.

_This is too easy_, he thought as exhaustion regained its hold on him, and he leaned against a house, legs shaking. _Too easy to escape. It's like_ Mėtû's_ playing with me._

He heard the shriek of a horse not too far distant, and suddenly, his terror and weariness became impatience.

"You want me?" he said quietly, and then he stepped out into the middle of the road, fists clenched. "_Then come get me!_" he roared into the sky.

The _Ňocte'ĕquả_ burst forth from the fog and galloped straight towards the warlock, _Mėtû_ wielding his net in both hands.

If Fear was surprised when a spit of flame torpedoed in his direction, he didn't reveal it as he yanked the Night Mare to the right to avoid it.

Merlin's eyes flashed like golden doubloons and he sent a second jet of fire at the knight. The magic within him snarled at his enemy, hackles rising ominously as he prepared to attack once more.

When the Olitiau dove from the sky, Merlin waved a hand and the beast was caught in a mini twister. It was torn to shreds instantly, and vanished like it was never there – which it wasn't.

"That all you got?" Merlin sneered, as _Mėtû_ ceased the Night Mare. The knight's laugh echoed from his dark helmet. "Stop with the games! Fight like a man, come on!"

Arthur charged from the left, swinging his sword. "Die, sorcerer!" he spat, and made to impale the warlock. A stone flew up and smacked the prince in the side of the head, and he fell with a crash onto his front. Merlin didn't look at him again as he disappeared like smoke into the ground.

"I expected more," Merlin snapped, trying to retain a strong voice. The Arthur hadn't been real, but it had still shaken him to do what he did.

There was a sudden air of uncertainty radiated from _Mėtû_, as though Fear was becoming frightened. Whether or not that was possible mattered little to Merlin. He concentrated solely on keeping his own terror in check.

Thunder roiled overhead, and the sky prepared to empty.

"_F__ŭ__lm__ę__n!_" A lightning streak blazed down from the heavens into his outstretched hands and arms. A ball of ultra-bright light swelled betwixt his palms, and he made as though to thrust the sphere forward. A continuous stream of lightning shot forth, striking the knight and his Mare full on. Merlin felt uncharacteristically pleased to hear the sound of another person's pain as _Ňocte'ĕquả_ squealed, cringing and twisting, and _Mėtû_ howled in agony.

It was a hollow, unnatural sound, the knight's cry was. It made Merlin hesitate after a few seconds, and the lightning flickered, before stopping all together. A crisp smell of hot metal wafted into his nostrils.

The Night Mare's legs were slightly spread, as though she was spent. Her head drooped and her breath shuddered. _Mėtû_ was slumped in the saddle, gently smoking. They were alive, and in moments, already recovering. All Merlin succeeded in doing was make them angry. Very angry.

The knight Fear paralysed Merlin with his gaze as he nudged his grumbling horse forward. The warlock, hopelessness blossoming in his chest, struggled to think of a fresh attack, but panic soon started to set in again and take over. The hallucinations were nothing compared to what he went through now. It was a nightmare for true – he could not move.

_Just a dream_, he thought, gritting his teeth. _That's all it is. That's all it's about. It's just a dream. Wake up_.

_Mėtû_ continued to stare mercilessly at the hapless warlock as he closed the distance between them.

_Wake up_.

Holding the Mare's head from slipping over and biting Merlin again, Fear used his free hand to reach down once more to capture him.

_A dream. _Wake up!

He didn't know he was running until he heard _Mėtû_'s snarl of impatience behind him, and then the clatter of hooves on the road. Merlin lengthened his stride, but knew it was hopeless even as the net fell over his head and snared him. His limbs were instantly entangled and as he rolled into a mess. _Mėtû_ had him, at last.

* * *

><p><strong>Ooooooh dear.<strong>

**Rough Latin translations:  
><strong>**_Non dormiunt_****: no rest  
><strong>**_Fulmen_****: lightning**

**Have a nice day.**


	12. Strength, Courage, and Idiocy

~12~ Strength, Courage, and Idiocy

The cell was small, only about five paces from corner to corner. Merlin knew. He had walked around it for an hour.

Like a caged cat he paced, feeling the internal battle rage as his magic fought Morgana's (yes, he knew it was Morgana's: he couldn't mistake it for anything). Her dark sorcery had tried to coax him to sleep, but he could taste the foul magic and rejected it, fought the urge to rest.

Even in the near complete darkness, he didn't walk into any walls. Not anymore, anyway. He had not the slightest idea how long he'd been in there, for he hadn't been conscious for his entire stay. He remembered nothing after being captured by _Mėtû_, so he didn't know how he had gotten to the cell in the first place, only that he couldn't get out.

For the thousandths time, he contemplated on breaking the lock with magic, and, for the same thousandths time, he pushed the thought aside. Morgana would feel her power-reinforced lock being destroyed, and Merlin didn't fancy his chances against her and Fear united.

He forced himself to think of another solution, but it was getting harder and harder without fresh air. The dungeon had been closed off for centuries until recently, judging by the smell, and it made him feel slightly woozy. The window on the door was only about the size of his hand, and there was no opening to the outside at all. He felt like he was going to go crazy. He rushed up to the door and peeked through the tiny hole.

"Arthur! Gwaine! Lancelot! Can you hear me?" ..._You hear me...ear me...me...?_ Merlin banged on the wooden door in frustration as his echo mocked him once more, just like it had every other attempt to communicate. He wasn't sure they were down there with him, or awake—_alive_—but why risk not trying?

Someone sighed shakily. "W-why b-b-bother-er, l-laddie? They c-can't hear y-y-you." A nervous laugh sounded from another cell.

Merlin wasn't sure if it was the voice or the insane laugh which followed that startled him more.

"Hello?"

"Hell, oh, in-indeed-d, b-boyo." Another chuckle, and then a frightened gasp, before silence.

When the stillness stretched on, accompanied only by a distant dripping sound, Merlin thought he had imagined the whole thing. Then there was a second shuddering sigh.

"H-h-h-have you any i-idea what-t-t...w-what you've g-gotten yourself in-into, l-laddie?" The laugh was shrill, and definitely not from a sane mind.

It was difficult to tell in which cell the other prisoner was kept. His voice echoed from up and down the corridor. Merlin figured that it may be because the man was actually right across the hall. "Sir, can you tell me what's going on?"

"..._When as K-king Henry ruled th-this land..._" A shiver. "_The s-second of that n-name...B-bes-besides the queen he d-dearly loved a fair and c-comely dame..._"

"Sir, do you understand me?"

"Heh-heh. _M-most peerless was h-her beaut-ty found. 'Er f-favour and 'er face; a s-sweeter creature in th'world...C-could never prince emb...em-embrace-sss_." This time the laughter was a loud whoop.

Merlin shook his head. The man had lost his mind, without a doubt. Any thought of his luck returning had already gone, but hearing the chortles of the insane prisoner dragged his hopes down to the bottom of the sea, and then started digging.

"_Y-yea Rosamonde, f-f-f...fair R-rosamonde her name was ca-called so_. Ha-ha...!" He whimpered, and sniffed. "_To wh-whom our q-queen, Dame Ellinor was kn-known a deadly foe._" Sobs had replaced the laughter. "Oh, my Rosie...No! Don't hurt me!"

Merlin's hands flew to his ears at the horrified scream that pealed out, but then he tore them away and looked through the door window again, searching for the cause of the man's terror. There was nothing that he could see from the glows of a distant torch reflecting down the damp corridor.

"Sir? Sir, are you all right?"

"The witch comes! The witch comes!"

"Calm down! What witch? Morgana?"

"_Oh waly, waly up the b-bank, and w-waly, waly down the bro, and waly, waly yon b-burn-n side, w-where I and m-my love were wont to go_."

Merlin growled in frustration. "Speak _sense_, man!" He began to pace around the cell again as the prisoner continued to chant old ballads, sounding high and cheerful one minute, and then low and terrified the next.

Suddenly, the mad man's tone changed altogether, to something grim. The warlock paused in his pacing to listen.

"When Darkness comes unto the world, beneath the shadow moon..." A shudder. "The bane of fate shall dance with him, and bring about her doom." Silence fell once more.

The words had been as clear as bells, but that is not what Merlin wondered about. They had sounded rehearsed, as though they had been repeated by the same man for his whole life; at the same time, they felt like they had been from a prophecy of a thousand years. But that was nonsense.

_A madman's prattle_, Merlin thought, and deflated. He slumped his back against the door and slid to the ground, only to grimace as something jabbed into his spine on the way down. Still sitting, he turned and glowered at the offender, and then blinked. It was a door hinge...The hinges were on the _inside!_

* * *

><p><em>Yeah, okay<em>, one would think. _The door hinges are on the inside of the cell. Big deal._

To Merlin, it _was_ a big deal. It was his freedom.

Probing with his magic, he discovered that, yes, Morgana had not taken the door's structure into account. The hinges were unaffected by sorcery, and so completely vulnerable to his own.

"Suck this, Morgana," he said (astonishing words coming from him), and shot a spear of magic through the door joint, displacing the nail. A moment later, the second and third hinges, too, were sabotaged.

Merlin put his ear to the small window and listened hard. All that could be heard was the soft, mindless sobbing from the other prisoner. Then the magic in his chest cracked its knuckles, flexed its arms and lifted the door the slightest bit, before pulling it towards him ever so slowly. Glad that it was only himself he had to free, as he was so thin, he squeezed through the narrow space before putting the door back in place, leaving the lock secure—if not slightly bent, as he suddenly noticed. Shrugging, he nearly turned away, but then got a new idea.

"_Ünūguibus, __rev__ęr__teris_." His eyes flashing gold, he heard three small, rusty clinks as the nails replaced themselves, and nodded, satisfied. _Let her riddle _that_ one out_, he thought.

Suddenly, Merlin stopped, rolled his eyes and put his hand to his temples. What did it _matter_ if the hinges were on the inside or not? He could have just as easily...oh, _whatever_. If they weren't on the inside, he would never have been inspired to use them to escape.

"Stupid," he muttered, disgruntled. "Stupid..."

A hiccough saved the insane inmate from being forgotten by the warlock. Merlin checked the only other locked door in sight and tried to see in, but, of course, it was too dark.

"_Lučem_," he whispered, and nudged the blue orb of conjured light from his palm through the little window. Tendrils of light flicked off the orb towards a huddled man in the corner, filthy and skinny. The illumination gave the gaunt face an even more haunted look by shadowing his eyes and cheeks. The prisoner whimpered, cringing away from the light in fear. He looked so pathetic in his tattered, dirty clothes. His shoulder-length hair greasy and scraggly.

"I'm not going to hurt you," said Merlin soothingly. He undid the lock, which wasn't reinforced with magic, but did not open the door. "What is your name?"

"When Darkness comes unto the world, beneath the shadow moon—"

"No, your name...Your _name_, sir."

"The bane of fate shall dance with him—"

"No one's dancing with anyone. Will you just listen to me?" Merlin backed a few steps and turned once uselessly in a circle. His patience was wearing too thin to detect, and it was all he could do to not leave the man to his fate and search for his companions.

"—and bring about her doom..."

He took a deep breath. Deep in his heart, he knew he would never—_could_ never—do that to anyone. Then he grimaced: the stench wafting from the cell was horrid.

"For he will call the Lord of Sky, the Luminance of the Sun—"

Merlin stepped back up to the door. "Sir, you need to come with—"

"_He shall triumph over Darkness!_" screamed the man, "_for__ the land of Albion!_"

With a howl, the madman rushed at the door, blood-shot eyes wide and toothless mouth gaping. Merlin jumped back as a bony arm reached through the door window and clawed at him.

"_For Albion!_" he shrieked. "_For Albion!_"

Merlin fled, the echoes of the maniac chasing him down the dungeon corridor. The mixture of screams and insane laughter was terrifying to behold. No matter where he turned, the sounds rang in his ears and haunted his heart.

When at last all that was to be heard was his own heaving breath, he slowed to rest, and brightened the blue orb of conjured light that had led him. He gathered his bearings and thoughts back into the spilt basket and calmed himself.

He had had to leave that man behind. There was nothing for it. He was insane, and would only prove a burden to the warlock. However, Merlin found himself swearing to break the prisoner free should fate permit it. And he would do his best to _make_ fate permit it. But to do that, he was going to need help, help in the form of strength, courage, and...and...

Merlin paused a moment. What was Arthur's forte? Idiocy? Pomposity? The tendency to attract trouble?

_Moron! Stop _thinking_ and start _acting! he snapped at himself.

"_Monștrarę mihĭ șociis ąrdĕnt!_" Show me my comrades!

The cry came louder than he expected, but it was satisfying to hear his commanding tone reverberate down the dungeon; although, he wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen.

The answer came in the sound of a throb. Blinking and shaking his head, he thought he'd imagined it, but when it came again, an undertone pound from the direction that he had come from, he knew where to go.

The throb increased in speed the closer he got to the first of his friends, and as the sound quickened, so did his feet. He reached a closed, locked door. The pounding ceased, and then started again, low, slow, and distant. It was trying to lead him to the next knight, but Merlin focused first on the one in the cell.

With his conjured orb of light, he lit up the inside of the prison through the small window of the door, and squinted at the huddled figure against the far wall. The man was sleeping, and suffering through a nightmare. Merlin prepared to unhinge the door as the prisoner rolled over, and he saw that it was Lancelot.

**Φ**

_Drowning._

_The water, deep, black, soulless water, shackled his ankles and prevented him from making for a surface he couldn't see. No matter how he struggled, he couldn't ascend to relieve his howling lungs, starved of oxygen and suffocated by fear. His heart was fit to explode, but the dark water was oblivious to his suffering—or enjoyed causing it._

_Despair had enveloped him long ago, but hopelessness had leeched away his will to live. Eventually, he stopped thrashing, and closed his eyes which couldn't see anyway. Then the triumphant water dragged him down, further and further, into its crushing depths._

_Drowning._

_But wait. Was that...a light?_

_The gleam of a candle teased his eyelids open, and he saw a figure swimming his way. He felt hands brush past him, and then grasp onto his shirt. As they began to haul him upwards, a flicker of will returned to him, and he kicked at the furious water towards the surface. The hands that were his saviours encouraged him by tightening their grip and tugging faster._

_The surface was near. He could see the light—_

**Φ**

Air bellowed into his lungs as his eyes snapped open. Despite what he thought, he wasn't sopping wet and half-drowned. His mind caught up with reality, and he sat up, heart racing.

Merlin rolled away from him, groaning and holding his mouth and nose. An orb of azure light lit the small cell they resided in. As Merlin retched emptily once, Lancelot crawled towards him, but was at a loss of action. However, within moments, the warlock had recovered, and was wiping away the dribbles of blood from his nose.

"Not as bad this time," he said, and shuddered. "Why did your fear have to be drowning?"

* * *

><p><strong>Rough Latin translations:<strong>  
><strong><em>Monstrare mihi sociis ardent:<em>**** show me my comrades  
><strong>**_Unguibus, reverteris_****: nails, return  
><strong>**_Lucem_****: light**


	13. The End is Come

**You know how difficult it is for me to write a short story? I would have something really simple, but then go, "Ooh, I should add this conflict. And then ****_this_**** happens. And then ****_this_****, and ****_this_****—"**

***Sigh* Self-restraint is not my strong point, not when it comes to writing. Or chocolate.**

* * *

><p>~13~ <span>The End is Come<span>

Lancelot, though slightly sceptical, followed Merlin, who appeared to be leading him down random corridors in search of the others. The knight wasn't sure about what the distracted warlock meant when he said he was listening for them, but followed him regardless.

He demanded that Merlin tell him what he knew, of course, about what was going on. Unfortunately, it wasn't much. Morgana had her hand in it, for sure. Fear, or "Mey-too," was also guilty, the servant was positive, though he didn't know _what_ the man was, exactly. And Smokie, Arthur's horse, was really the "Noc-te Ek-ewah," the Night Mare. Together, they made a force that Merlin obviously feared to face. The man was as taunt as a drum skin, and jumped at little sounds, including Lancelot's voice.

They came to a fork in the tunnel, and, like every other time, the warlock paused and turned his head first one way, then the other, to locate their imprisoned companions. This time, however, he paused and frowned.

"What the...?"

"What? What's wrong?"

The warlock glanced at Lancelot, but never really saw him. "They're...coming this way."

"...Your light! Extinguish it!"

A moment later, they were enveloped in darkness. They listened hard for footsteps, but the prince and ruffian knight were still too far away.

"They aren't together," he whispered. "Their presences are separated...but both are down this way. Follow me."

They let the wall guide them down as their eyes adjusted, yet eventually, light was no longer an issue. Their hands brushed across brackets in the walls, and soon, torches, lit by magic, reflected light down the corridors.

"A real labyrinth, this is," Lancelot muttered as they reached a junction that led into five new passageways.

Merlin's eyes were closed as he concentrated. "One of them is this way," he said, indicating to his right, and then pointed to the next tunnel over. "And there's the other."

"Should we wait for them?"

"We've closed half the distance between us coming here. I suppose we should, so we don't split up. Separating never works anyhow."

It was a long, tedious wait. Like watching the moon rise, their companions took forever in getting to the junction room.

"Why is it taking them so long?" Lancelot grumbled, uncharacteristically impatient.

"They're probably just stuck in the dark."

Lancelot paused in his pacing. "How would they have gotten out of their cells in the first place? And...at the exact same time?"

Merlin, too, hesitated. "Well, er...they could have...um...Just a spooky coincidence?" Neither of them believed that, of course. "Maybe we _should_...meet them."

"Can you tell how far they are now?"

"...Not too distant. If we wait a couple more minutes..."

Five minutes passed by the time footsteps were audible from both passageways. Merlin, who had diminished his tracking spell, and Lancelot waited expectantly, holding the torches into the shadows.

"I see Arthur!" said Merlin loudly, as the prince came into view.

"And Gwaine!" Lancelot grinned. "How you doing, mate...? Gwaine?"

"...Arthur?"

The warlock and the knight glanced at each other in unison. Their companions' speed never increased despite the cheerful greetings and flaming torches. As they watched, Arthur and Gwaine walked into the junction room as though in a trance. Their feet dragged, and their eyes were closed. They were also chanting something under their breath, synchronized with each other.

Though his instincts screamed at him, Merlin took a cautious step forward and snapped his fingers before Arthur's face. The prince didn't react, and never hesitated in his entranced pace or mumbling.

"Okay, _kinda_ creepy," said Merlin, as Arthur walked right past him, still in sync with Gwaine.

"I think we should wake them," said Lancelot casually, coming to stand beside the warlock, "don't you?"

They each walked around and stood in front of the hypnotized men, and held their ground.

"Rise and shine, dollop-head," sang Merlin. The prince walked right into him. "_Whoa_." He was forced back a few steps and he nearly tripped over his own feet. The stronger man still failed to respond, and ploughed past the warlock with ease. Lancelot, too, had difficulty stopping Gwaine. "This is ridiculous!" Merlin thundered, and once more stepped before Arthur. This time, he slapped his face. The Pendragon cringed away. "_Wake up!_"

His throat tightened as the prince turned towards him at last, his chants ceasing. Arthur's eyes opened, but the thunder blue irises had been consumed by a pitiless darkness.

The warlock heard Lancelot gasp, but couldn't tear his horrified gaze away from Arthur's dead one. He can only imagine that Gwaine was the same.

Arthur started muttering again, but his voice and words were not his own. "_Vėnit finiş. Quinquô ex Apôcalypsĭ revęni__ö__. Illis arcụm, d__ö__minos fảta. Vėnit finiş._" The end is come. The five of the Apocalypse return. Bow to them, the lords of Fate. The end is come.

Merlin shivered as the prince's black eyes turned sightlessly away, and he began to make for the darkness once more. The warlock snatched out and grasped Arthur's shirt, making himself a deadweight.

"Enough of this," he hissed, even as the prince dragged him along, his feet skidding against the damp floor. "Stop, Arthur. Snap out of it!"

"_Vėnit finiş._"

Merlin threw a foot forward, between the Pendragon's legs, tripping him with his own limb. As Arthur stumbled, Merlin attempted to shove him to the ground to hold him down, but it was in vain. Even as he regained his balance, Arthur turned on him, snarling, fist upheld. The warlock managed to duck the first swing, but a second caught his eye, and he saw stars as he crashed to the ground.

He nearly curled up to protect himself, but the entranced prince had already raced down the corridor, Gwaine by his side. Merlin stood, clutching his eye, and noticed Lancelot pushing himself from against the wall, favouring his jaw.

"After them!"

Torches at hand, they chased their companions down the passageway, thinking that it would be easier to catch them because they had a light, and the others did not. They were wrong. Despite the continuous darkness, the knight and prince were always ten paces ahead.

Exhaustion, starvation, and thirst slowed the pursuing comrades, and they couldn't bring themselves to accelerate even as their targets got away. Merlin vaguely felt himself using the tracking spell once more to keep on the right trail.

When they reached a room with a central spiral staircase twirling up into a ceiling trapdoor, they paused, and glanced at each other.

"This is it, I figure," said Lancelot, somehow sounding cheerful and grim at the same time.

"It was nice knowing you," Merlin replied. When the knight looked at him peculiarly, he said, "Well, chances are Morgana and _Mėtû_ are up there, waiting for us. I just thought, you know, good-byes won't be able to be said later. Try to see through the corniness, okay?" The warlock passed the bewildered knight and led the way up the stairs to the trapdoor. Then he glanced down at his friend, nodded sombrely once, and pushed it open.

**† † †**

The place was in ruin, that much was clear. Rubble was strewn everywhere, and chunks of stone were missing from the roof, walls, and floor. Some furniture and torn tapestries were fortunate to still exist.

Merlin carefully scanned the room, which he figured must be inside the tower of Mitheras, before pushing the trapdoor the rest of the way open. It fell behind him with a loud _bang_, and he winced.

Wary, he crawled from the hole and remained at a crouch as Lancelot came through after him. They both saw the footprints in the dust and began to follow, careful not to step on any rubble and create a ruckus. The tracks were easy to pursue, as the makers were still in a trance and were clumsy in their flight. The pair each picked up a petrified stave of wood for a weapon on the way, until Lancelot found a sword hanging on a wall, one that was once part of a coat-of-arms. He felt its balance and then put it through his belt at his hip, satisfied.

As they continued, Merlin's mind wandered a bit, and for the first time, he noticed a light tang in his mouth, foul and slightly nauseating. He remembered it quite clearly: the taint of the Perilous Lands. The chaos of the past several hours had prevented him from acknowledging it properly, but now, something else was mixed with said taint, something older, and darker...

Lancelot grabbed him from behind and prevented him from walking past a sizable gap in the wall. The pair hastily crouched and hid against the rubble before peeking through the gap.

It was a courtyard, about forty paces across, surrounded by the inner walls of the tower. Far above, the sky was visible as a square the size of a coin. Shrieking wyvern circled within the open space, some roosting in nests built into the crumbling stone. There was also the occasional pigeon, and the soft coos of the birds were vaguely heard from a hutch above and out of sight.. Merlin knew now that it had not been just a concerned civilian reporting a magic sighting who had sent the pigeon message to Camelot all those days ago.

Across from the two companions was a two-story tall entrance, devoid of gate or door. They could see dawn glowing orange and gold on the horizon. At the centre of the courtyard was a circle of pale stone, engraved with a large pentagram. At each point of the star was a lone-standing archway, and at the centre of it all was a small pedestal. Morgana stood by that pedestal, her back to Merlin and Lancelot. She was talking to _Mėtû_, or rather, by her angry gestures, arguing. The pair was just out of range to hear properly, but the words were obviously heated.

"There's Arthur and Gwaine," Merlin whispered grimly, indicating with an unnecessary nod. The knight and prince stood in a daze before two of the archways, which, when Merlin squinted, had figures visible through them. "And...she has the Phoenix Feather. I can sense it."

"That's the magic-channelling thing, right?"

Merlin nodded grimly. "It magnifies her power, and gives her absolute control." He could recollect the events quite clearly, even after a year later, of Morgana acquiring that tool. Beneath Camelot, in its deepest, darkest caves, Merlin had found the Phoenix Feather sitting innocently on a pedestal, yet when he touched it, it had nearly killed him. Fortunately, Arthur was there to revive him. Then, because all of Camelot was being held hostage, he was forced to give the weapon to the witch.

Merlin shook his head, gritting his teeth. "I should never have surrendered it to her."

"There was nothing you could have done, Merlin." Lancelot put a hand on the warlock's shoulder. "Even if you had kept it from her, she would have killed you and then taken it. Chances are Arthur, too, would be dead. What's done is done."

"Well, I wish it had been done better." The servant swallowed the past, lived the present and prepared for the future. "What the hell is this? What is she planning?"

"It's too hard to hear what she's saying. But we can't get any closer than this," said Lancelot in frustration, scanning the area.

"I don't think it would be very wise to charge headlong across the yard, swords swinging and roaring battle cries of blood-lust, do you?"

"That would be the Gwaine thing to do."

"Yeah, it would. Let's go."

It was stupid of them, but they _did_ charge headlong across the yard, swords swinging and roaring battle cries of blood-lust anyway. They made three steps before Morgana noticed them, yet she let them come within seven of her before casually twitching a finger and lifting them effortlessly into the air.

"Last time we do any _Gwaine things_," Merlin hissed as he struggled, disgruntled.

Morgana shook her head, mockingly amazed. "This is proving easier than I thought." She stepped closer to them, studying each in turn. "What, exactly, did you plan on accomplishing?"

Lancelot and Merlin glanced at each other, and then the warlock said, "Well, usually things just work out doing that."

Morgana glared at him, and an invisible noose tightened around his throat. "Silence, little fool." As Merlin struggled and choked, he dropped his wooden stave, clawing at the rope. Lancelot growled in fury.

"Let him go, witch!" His sword was torn from his grasp and tossed away, and then he was dropped to the ground. Before he could stand, unseen ropes looped around him, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Men are such nuisances," said Morgana, as Lancelot snarled and was dragged across the stone circle, towards an archway. The one he halted before viewed, through a transparent veil, a thin, armoured man astride a scrawny black horse. The knight swallowed as he was tugged to his feet and made to stand, facing the spectre. "Useless, and weak."

"My lady."

Morgana faced _Mėtû_, who was still mounted on the Night Mare, and then she remembered Merlin. The servant had started to turn blue in the face. With a sigh, the sorceress banished the noose suffocating him, and then dropped him. As he crashed to the ground, he sucked in air loudly and coughed.

"You are a bug, Merlin," said the witch. "A thorn in my side. I don't know how you escaped your prison, but know that you will never thwart me again. You shall aid me in freeing the Knights of the Apocalypse – you and your companions, including my little brother. You will feed the pentagram and release its powers, and I will finally rise to take my rightful place as queen, queen of Camelot, and eventually, all of Albion."

* * *

><p><strong>That b—<strong>**_witch!_**

**Witch, I said witch!**

**The moral of this story: Never do any 'Gwaine things.'**


	14. Out of Time

**I should say something here, but I know you'll all just snap, "Get ****_on_**** with it!"**

* * *

><p>~14~ <span>Out of Time<span>

Merlin's heart was overflowing with despair as he was forced to stand before the archway, the portal, of _Caedeşqụe_, Bloodshed. The name had been engraved into the apex of the doorway, and the warlock stared at it numbly. He was right. There _was_ more to _Mėtû_ than met the eye, but it was much bigger than he had ever imagined. Bigger, and more dire.

He turned, for he could move his feet in place but not in any direction, and glowered at Fear and the Night Mare. He felt hate rise within that alarmed even himself. Magic uncoiled in his chest, hissing and spitting, threatening to expose him.

_No!_ He forced the power away. _Not yet. If I must use magic, it will be when I have the best advantage possible._ He tried to focus his attention on the next archway over, about seven paces away, before which stood Arthur, still black-eyed and entranced.

"Arthur," he hissed. "Arthur!"

"He won't hear you unless I let him." Morgana was fingering an elaborate dagger sitting on the pedestal.

"What have you done to him?" the warlock demanded, struggling against the invisible bonds.

"Nothing that will yet bring him harm. I have use of him, as I said. And of you."

"What is it you want of us?" Merlin's tone could have made ice shiver. Morgana just smirked.

"All I want is what destiny has written for me. I am the eldest Pendragon, and when King Uther," she said in a contemptuous manner, "weak and dying as he is, finally passes on, _I_ should ascend to the throne, not Arthur."

"Arthur will be a great king, a better ruler than you'll ever be," Merlin snapped. "And you are proving that even now, with this..._evil_ you're—"

"You have no idea of the might of what I'm summoning," cooed Morgana, and the warlock had to rein in a shudder. "You have seen what _Mėtû_ and the _Ňocte'ĕquả_ can accomplish, even separated. But you have not witnessed the true power of the Knights. At least, not yet. But you will. Soon."

Merlin's gaze was drawn back to the archway, where Bloodshed stood like a sculpture on his horse of flaming red. _Caedeşqụe_ never turned his helmet eye slits away from the warlock. Even as Merlin tilted slightly to the side, Bloodshed followed with his head. When he snarled, the Knight appeared to simply chuckle. There was no sound, but it was clear that he was amused, yet unimpressed.

"I will _never_ help you," the servant spat, turning back to Morgana. "Nothing you say or do will convince me—"

"That's what they _all_ say. Here's the snag, _Merlin_: I don't have to 'convince' you to do anything." She began to finger the dagger on the pedestal again, which Merlin abruptly recognized. It was the very same dagger Arthur had presented her for her birthday years ago. She had nearly killed King Uther with it before Merlin stopped her. "How did you like falling asleep at night knowing that it wasn't going to be a peaceful rest?"

The question caught the servant off-guard. "What?"

Morgana sneered. "It seemed fitting that the Archon I chose to release first had the Night Mare under his charge. You suffer as I suffered, as Camelot suffers even now. Gaius's potions were useless, but I never told the old fool that, because I never wanted anyone to worry." Her expression grew dark. "Dare I say that I, to use the cliche, hit two birds with one stone?

"I assume you've met my old...acquaintance...in the dungeon, correct?" She took the warlock's silence as an affirmative. "Strange phenomenon, isn't he? Not quite...right in the head. Almost insane, like he had been terrified out of his wits."

Merlin started to feel ill to his stomach. "What did you do?" he demanded apprehensively.

Morgana smiled, as benign as a rusted knife. "I freed _him_." She nodded lightly at Fear.

With a waved her fingers, Merlin felt a slight, peculiar tug in the air. Arthur and Gwaine sagged where they stood, but did not fall, and breath rushed out of their chests as though they had been holding them for a long time. Merlin watched as Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times, blinking like an owl, before shaking his head and straightening stiffly.

"Wha'? Where 'm I?" he mumbled softly, his throat sounding rough. "Merlin?"

"Here, clotpole."

The prince looked sluggishly over at him, still blinking. His eyes had returned to twin azures, which was a relief. "Where 're we?"

"Oh, the usual. Someplace where we're probably going to die a horrible gruesome death at the hands of a merciless killer, you know."

Arthur saw the Knight beyond the wispy veil blowing in a nonexistent wind before him, and he _humph_ed. "You're such a _lemon_ sometimes, you know that?"

Merlin grinned, and then flinched as something whip-lashed across his cheek, drawing blood.

"Hey!" Arthur snapped, whirling around, and got his own cut on his chest.

"Silence," Morgana said calmly.

The pair was in no position to argue, and they fell into grumbling quiet, hate radiating towards the dark sorceress in waves one could almost see. She ignored their disgust and stood beside the only empty archway at the pentagram, _Mėtû_'s former prison.

"Derek was a lonely man, unloved. No one would miss him." Morgana gazed at each captive in turn with a tiny smile. "I'm actually surprised he's still alive. He was in such pain, and faced so much horror. It was like he was staring into the face of—"

An impatient sigh. "Oh, just get _on_ with it!"

Everyone turned to look at Gwaine curiously.

"Well, come now! All this lip-flabbin' and tongue-wagglin' is enough to make one bonkers. Don't you realize that this is always how the prisoners escape? All the blah-blah-blah—" Gwaine froze as the dagger from the central pedestal spun through the air and halted a mere inch from between his eyes.

"All right then," said Morgana, arm outstretched, slowly turning the blade around in midair. "We shall begin. But...not with you." She moved her arm, and the dagger followed her aim clockwise around the pentagram, stopping at Lancelot. "We'll start with the bravest, the gryphon-slayer."

"Morgana." Arthur's tone had a warning ring. The prince tore his gaze from Fear, and the Night Mare, formerly Smokie. Years of military discipline held his features steady.

Lancelot's deadpan expression held firm, but there was unease in his eyes. Behind him, the entrapment of _Fąmem_ stood tall and foreboding. The starved ebony horse within snorted, stamping a restless hoof. It groaned in hunger as Famine coughed up dust, sitting in his saddle.

The dagger hung before the Lancelot as Morgana stepped towards him. Not far away, _Mėtû_ chortled quietly, failing to hide his anticipation. He stood as still on his unmoving horse as he did a month ago, the day Arthur faced him in combat for the first time.

Merlin's heart thumped in his chest as Morgana took the elaborate dagger from the air, and he tugged uselessly at the unseen bonds holding him. It was like his feet were in ice, stuck, immobile.

_So melt the ice_, he told himself, and magic rustled its wings in eager preparation.

Unbidden, Lancelot's arm rose to chest level, hand turned up towards the sorceress. Morgana put the tip of the knife against his palm.

"Wait!"

For a moment, all that was heard was the warbling of wyvern high above.

Merlin reached towards Morgana and Lancelot, a pleading expression on his face. "Wait, don't hurt him."

"Merlin—"

The warlock ignored Arthur. "Please...do _me_ first."

"Bad choice of words, mate," said Gwaine softly.

Morgana just smiled coldly and drew swift, short cuts across Lancelot's palm. The knight did his best to be silent, but the suddenness startled a gasp from his lips. Then Morgana, one hand in her pocket and touching the blue Phoenix Feather, began to chant in a low voice, slow and methodical, as blood dripped freely off Lancelot's fingers. The language was entirely alien.

"_Dai poteri Antichi, h__o rompere la barriera dei due mondi..._"

The man looked at his hand as he was forced to face the archway of Famine, and Merlin was able to see the insignia traced into his flesh from behind: it was a circled star, like the giant one they were standing on now.

"_Libero il re di vecchia, Carestia_."

The companions watched in distress as Lancelot's palm unwillingly pressed against the transparent, wavering veil of the portal. As his hand touched the material, tendrils of red spread out like blood in water, and suddenly, the Knight's black horse on the other side started to dance. It stepped from hoof to hoof, nostrils flared, ears flat.

Within moments, the others, including the _Ňocte'ĕquả_, were doing the same. _Mėtû_ began to hit his lance against his armour, rhythmically, like a beating drum. Behind Merlin, Bloodshed did the same with his broadsword. _Halosĭs_, host of Gwaine's portal, pounded his fist against his chest, and lifted his longbow in anticipation. With these beats, in sync with each other, a hum filled the air, and Lancelot's shoulders started to shake, his limbs jerk spasmodically. The last of Morgana's incantation was lost in the riot.

"Lancelot!" Arthur's attempt to lunge forward was in vain. He snarled as Morgana cut open his cheek with an unseen whip, but still he refused to hold still. He was not alone.

"That's far enough!" Gwaine snapped.

"Let him go!" Merlin roared. _Hurry up, hurry up!_ he yelled at himself, his magic still trying to pry his feet free.

_Mėtû_ laughed darkly from within his helmet at the futile attempts. Merlin desperately wanted to throw something at him.

Lancelot started to gasp and choke. _Fąmem_ slowly reached down from his seat in the saddle. His horse stepped lightly to an angle so that the rider could easily touch Lancelot's palm. His fingers brushed the veil—

—A ring of force exploded from the archway, gusting everyone like a storm's wind. The tower walls groaned and cracked in protest. Dust fell, but only Merlin seemed to notice...

Lancelot's hand began to shrivel and die. The flesh withered, leaving the limb bony and latticed with black veins. Tongues of grey flicked from the knight's arm to the Archon's.

The companions witnessed in horror as the rest of the brave man's body was sucked of life and flesh. Years seemed to pass through Lancelot, years of famine. His hand remained touching the Knight's even as he fell to this knees, his clothing hanging from his starved frame. His features were thrown into sharp relief, becoming more and more like a skull with every moment: his eyes sunk into their sockets, his cheeks hollowed. By the end, he had the appearance of a man who had been starved for a very long time.

With a sigh of contentment, _Fąmem_ released Lancelot, who collapsed lifelessly, a skeleton in a coat of skin. And then the second Knight of the Apocalypse kneed his horse forward, towards the archway. He passed through the veil, which fell like torn wisps of cloth, and into freedom.

**† † †**

There was no earthquake, no blustering storm or rain of fire, yet Merlin felt the catastrophic aura of _Fąmem_ unite with that of Fear, and their strength expanded like great bellows, sucking hope and determination from the air.

It was clear now who the man in the dungeons was and how he had become so insane. When Morgana liberated Fear, her sacrifice had been him, and he lost his wits in terror. Now Lancelot suffered through Famine's plague of hunger. What would the others do?

Merlin glanced at his own archway behind him, again reading _Caedeşqụe_, Bloodshed. To the right was _Mėtû_'s empty portal, and beside that was Famine's. Merlin had to squint, but he definitely read Conquest's true name, _Halosĭs_, over Gwaine's head. His throat closed as he saw the name above Arthur: _Môrtęm_, kin of Death. Though the results of his own and Gwaine's sacrifices were unclear, Arthur's was unmistakable.

Merlin was running out of time.

Gwaine was screaming threats and insults at the top of his lungs, yet Arthur remained silent. His fury was evident, even as he stared at the fallen form of Lancelot. The knight was moving, but slowly, weakly, and he was so pathetically _thin_—

"You'll regret all you have done, Morgana," toned Arthur gravely, his voice cutting through Gwaine's shower of vulgar language.

"_Moęnĭbus, putrô_," said Merlin, dangerously soft.

Arthur glanced at him inquisitively. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'my thoughts also.'"

They all heard the low groan of ancient rock, and paused as a chunk of rubble fell from one of the tower's walls. Morgana turned in shock to watch it fall as Merlin felt his magic chip away the remains of his bindings. The plummeting rubble shattered against the courtyard in an explosion of stone and dust. Merlin broke free of his bonds and charged at Morgana from behind.

His plan, composed in about four and a half seconds, fell apart a moment later as Morgana saw the reaction of the liberated Knights, whirled around and thrust the dagger into his chest.

With a gasp, Merlin stumbled into the sorceress, but she side-stepped before he overbalanced her, and he fell in a wave of fiery pain.

He dimly heard Arthur scream his name as he hit cold stone, eyes seeing nothing but red, smelling only the tangy saltiness of sticky, messy blood. Shock was no relief; agony pounded through him with every heartbeat. As he lay there on his side, he grasped the protruding hilt with his left hand, and feebly tried to pull it out. He couldn't.

Morgana reached down and remorselessly yanked the blade free, wiping it clean on Merlin's shirt. As the warlock writhed onto his back, groaning, Morgana ignored him and beckoned to the two Knights.

"Put him back. Hold him up," she ordered. When they hesitated, she snapped, "_Now!_"

* * *

><p><strong>I'm mean, ain't I? *Wolfish grin*<strong>

**Latin translation:  
><strong>**_moenibus, putro_****: walls, crumble**

**Rough Italian translations:  
><strong>**_Dai poteri Antichi, ho rompere la barriera dei due mondi_****: From the Ancient powers, I break the barrier between two worlds.  
><strong>**_Libero il re di vecchia, Carestia_****: Free the king of old, Famine.**


	15. For the Land of Albion

**Longest night of the year today. Happy Solstice to all those it matters to! :D And Happy Chanukah! And Merry Three Days Before Christmas! And Happy/Merry whatever other celebration happens to be in this month!**

**Now back to the the grim matters.**

* * *

><p>~15~ <span>For the Land of Albion<span>

Merlin curled up, one hand in his shirt to clutch the wound. He saw Lancelot staring hopelessly at him, tears of defeat threatening to fall. He was too weak to brush them away. The bravest knight of them all was swallowed by despair. Merlin was not. The warlock smiled lightly and let a flash of blue show through the dagger-made hole in his shirt, just as Fear and Famine grasped either of his arms and hauled him to his feet.

He moaned in pain as they dragged him back before the archway of Bloodshed, and then Fear grasped his elbow and held his arm up, hand towards Morgana.

"Morgana! Wait, please!" Arthur's voice cracked in desperation. "Let us come to an agreement here."

"Don't bother, Arthur," croaked Merlin weakly. "There's no reasoning with a witch."

A moment later, six slices cut open his palm, and the circled star decreed his doom.

"We can work this out, Morgana."

"Listen to him, the great Prince Arthur Pendragon," said the sorceress arrogantly. "Protector of the poor and worthless, defender of _servants_ – not but a grovelling, begging swine beneath a cloak of honour."

"...Just...let him _go_."

Merlin was turned around between the two Knights, and he saw _Caedeşqụe_ reaching down for him. The Knight was only able to stretch so far before the force of the veil kept his hand back. An air of frustration radiated from him: he still needed Morgana's incantations to permit him to pass between the worlds.

"You're only making this more enjoyable for me, 'brother,'" Morgana sneered. To Merlin, "Don't worry. It will only hurt until you're dead." And she began her enchantments. "_Dai poteri Antichi, h__o_..._ rompere la barriera_..."

Silence.

A corner of Merlin's mouth lifted as Morgana's commanding voice faded away. The sorceress cleared her throat and tried again.

"_Dai poteri Antichi, h__o rompere_..." The confusion in her aura was like a harlequin at a funeral – so obvious that even the Knights turned their heads to stare at her inquiringly.

Though it pained him, Merlin leaned forward slightly while the Archons were distracted, and winked at Arthur. As though hearing unspoken words through telepathy, the prince nodded, and _just_ managed to stop himself from stepping away from the archway; the bonds no longer held him or Gwaine, not after Merlin took the Phoenix Feather from Morgana as he tripped into her and slipped it under his shirt. A silent hand from Arthur signalled Gwaine still as well, not that he would know what Merlin's plan was.

The warlock heaved a tight breath, and tilted his head up. He watched the circling wyvern for a moment before focusing on a particularly large horizontal crack in the tower wall.

Morgana screamed, "_Dai poteri Antichi..._! Dai poteri Antichi—!"

The magic of the Ancient Kingdom was no longer within her power. Without the Feather, her influence, her abilities, had returned to what was natural for her. For Merlin, however...

He felt the warmth of the Feather against his flesh on his chest as it healed his wound, and then his hand, leaving his body whole. Its channelling power fell in sync with his own magic perfectly, and he felt stronger than he'd ever been before. It was exhilarating, invigorating, yet he kept voice softer than a kitten's belly as he targeted the flaws of the tower high above. "_Moęnĭbus...putrô_."

The gap in the ruins split wide like a joker's humoured grin. Morgana's curses of frustration stopped abruptly as she turned at the sound. Astonishment quickly turned to fury, and she threw her hands up as though to hold the wall up, shrieking, "_Firmąe__ tenēnt!_"

The ancient Tower of Mitheras grumbled. Dust fell, as did individual bricks, but the wall held – except for one hunk of rubble. It fell from high above. Wyvern squealed and dove out of its way, and before Morgana could catch it, it smashed into the ground, sending chunks of shrapnel everywhere, including towards the pentagram.

Merlin threw himself to the ground. _Caedeşqụe'_s fiery horse reared, and flying rubble destroyed the archway. As the portal exploded, there was an echo of Bloodshed's howl of fury as the veil fluttered away and dissipated into the breeze.

The two liberated Knights bellowed in anger even as they were knocked over by flying stone. They immediately stood back up and ran for their horses.

By now, Morgana was certain she is without the Feather. She stopped checking her pockets, and turned her dark gaze on Merlin, still lying stunned on his stomach, coated in dust.

"Where is it?" she demanded, striding over and grabbing the warlock by the hair. She yanked his head up, and he grunted. "Give it to me!"

It was to the surprise of all when Merlin swung a fist and punched the witch in the throat. It wasn't very hard, considering his position, but it was enough to make Morgana recoil and release him. He rolled away and stood, only to have to duck under the grasping gauntlet of _Mėtû_. He wasn't fast enough, and the furious Knight managed to snag his jacket from his seat in the saddle.

"_Get away from him!_" Arthur charged across the pentagram, swinging Lancelot's fallen sword. Before Fear could react, the prince thrust the blade into his side, between the armour plates. The Knight snarled in fury, and tried to kick Arthur away, but Merlin reached up, grabbed his arm and pulled him off-balance in the saddle.

More of the tower crumbled to the ground. A barking command from _Mėtû_ set the Night Mare shrieking and rearing. She twisted on her hind legs, fore-hooves flailing dangerously. The prince and warlock dove out of the way even as the demon horse bucked.

_I fed_ oats _to this monster!_ Merlin thought.

"Kill him!" Morgana ordered, pointing at the servant. "Now!"

The Night Mare fell still as Fear curbed her, and then both he and Famine turned their horses around to face the sorceress.

"What are you waiting for?" Morgana snapped as the Knights remained silent. And then _Mėtû_ spoke.

"We no longer answer to you, my lady," he said, bowing lightly in the saddle. A chunk of stone, exploding from a larger piece nearby, hit him in the helmet, but he didn't seem to notice.

"...What?"

The Archons turned their heads towards Merlin, who was helping Arthur stand. The warlock paled under their gaze.

"You, my lord, shall free our brothers."

Merlin glanced down at the blue Feather, now in his hand, looking unruffled despite the recent rough treatment, then at Arthur, and finally at the Knight. "Um..._no?_"

After staring quietly at the servant for several uncomfortable moments, Fear kneed his horse towards him. "You must, my _lord_."

"Hm, _nah_, I don't think I will."

Again the Knight hesitated. He glanced at his brother for a second, as though at a loss.

Merlin only had the span of a heartbeat to throw himself in front of Arthur and shield him from the gust of black flames bellowing from Morgana's outstretched arms.

The startled prince nearly pulled Merlin to the ground and get him out of the fire's aim, when he realized that the flames never even reached them before they divided and past them on either side, like a boulder separating a river. Merlin, eyes shut, had held the Feather out before him like a shield, and the black fire could not touch it.

Morgana let the flames flicker and die, astonished. Merlin forced himself to looked equally shocked as he glanced between them all. Debris from above interrupted the confusion.

"_The tower's falling!_" Gwaine bellowed. The ruffian knight had the starved Lancelot in his arms. The company all looked up to see more and more of the ancient structure crumble. Panicking wyvern circled crazily, seemingly oblivious to the open escape route above them.

"Free my brothers!" _Mėtû_ roared, unsheathing his sword and pointing it at Merlin, disregarding the cloud of dust that bellowed around him. Arthur stepped before the warlock, upholding the sword in defence, and then he put his hand to his split cheek.

"What the..."

Merlin blinked as he saw the cut, caused by Morgana's cruel, unseen whip, heal itself, leaving Arthur's flesh like it had ever been. He felt the Feather warm in his hand, and glance down to see it glowing a faint dusk-blue. As it faded, he looked up to see _Fąmem_ struggle to restrain his suddenly jittery horse.

There was a tug in the air that began as the Feather started to glow again, and abruptly, Famine turned his horse towards the tower exit and kicked it into a gallop. Yet, for all the speed he could have forced from the scrawny beast, it wasn't enough. The archway of the second Knight of the Apocalypse reopened, and quickly caught hold of the fleeing Archon and his horse, before sucking them back.

The ebony creature squealed and dug its hooves into the dead grass around the pentagram, and then sparks flashed from under-hoof as it was dragged back across the stone star. To everyone else, the suction was just a strong wind; to _Fąmem_ and his horse, it was doom.

With one final whinny of the horse and a last roar from the Knight, they were pulled back through the archway, back into their own dormant world.

"How are you doing this?" Arthur demanded of his servant, yelling over the crash of crumbling tower.

"I'm not!" Merlin cried back, and it was with full honesty. He really wasn't doing _anything_. "The Feather! It must—" The warlock was interrupted by a furious roar from _Mėtû_, and he turned to see the Knight bearing down on him, blade bared.

Arthur pushed Merlin out of danger and met the Archon sword for sword.

"We must get out of here!" Gwaine was already carrying Lancelot, still bone-thin and weak, towards the tower's tall doorway. The ground started to shake. "Arthur! Come on!"

Another section of Mitheras Tower plummeted to earth, and _Halosĭs_ was helpless as the stones exploded nearby and smashed his archway. A brief wail of fury was audible as the portal was annihilated.

"Merlin, go! Get out, now!" Arthur bellowed over his shoulder, still in combat with Fear. "_Do what I say!_"

Merlin stole a quick glance at _Môrtęm_'s archway, and saw Death's kin stir restlessly, angrily, before Morgana attacked from behind. She wrapped her arms around his, pinning them to his sides, and tried to take the still-glowing Feather back. With a great deal of squirming, the warlock broke free, and had to duck away from the elaborate dagger in the sorceress's hand.

Gwaine's frustrated roar was almost impossible to discern from the collapsing tower. Merlin focused on his adversary, but a terrified yell from the prince interjected and he glanced over to see Arthur cowering in fear before _Mėtû_ for no apparent reason, clutching his ears.

"Arthur!"

It was a desperate move, but Merlin picked up a fallen rock and chucked it at Morgana. The witch was too slow to respond and it hit her in the head. She fell, stunned.

"They're just hallucinations, Arthur! Just empty visions and voices! Don't pay them attention! They aren't _real!_" The warlock's voice was swallowed by the grumbling tower. He saw _Mėtû_'s sword raise to strike the helpless prince. "_No!_"

And then, Fear's portal reactivated.

_Mėtû_ felt his sword being tugged over his head, towards his empty archway. Staring at his upheld arm in confusion, he used his other to try to force it back down to kill the Pendragon. Then the rest of him started to be drawn back as well. _Ňocte'ĕquả_ squealed and attempted to bolt, but the archway's pull was too strong, just as it was for _Fąmem_.

"_Nooooo!_" The outraged howl emitted from the dark helmet as the cursed Night Mare reared and was torn from the ground. All four hooves were in the air when they disappeared back into the archway, and the Archon's cries were silenced at last, and forever.

Merlin did not wait to watch the archway of Fear being destroyed. He dodged back as a chunk of rubble smashed to the ground and the pieces propelled themselves between him and Arthur. He nearly rushed through the following clouds of dust, but a sudden, even larger puff of dark smoke exploded from underfoot, blinding him and preventing him from returning to his friend. And then a shearing, stabbing pain ripped through his calf, and he fell forward with a scream of agony.

"Give me my Feather!" Morgana shrieked, using her dagger to keep Merlin down. She left the knife in his leg and crawled up beside him, reaching for the channelling tool in the warlock's hand. There was no doubt the witch had created the blinding curtain of smoke.

"Merlin!" The prince's cries were audible through the black dust wall, but Merlin knew not where he stood, only where he should go. He could do nothing but remain silent, and hope that the Pendragon's common sense would kick in and make him flee. But then, it's Arthur—

Common sense couldn't 'kick' the prince into motion. The failing tower will have to.

"Merlin!" The prince's desperate cries tore at the servant's heart as he wrestled mutely with Morgana. But he sounded more faded, distant, which meant he was actually leaving.

_Go_, Merlin pleaded inwardly. _Go, sire. Go, dollop-head_.

The warlock squirmed away from Morgana's grasp and struggled to his feet. Debris landed where he was lying a second ago, and the sorceress was lost from sight. Unbidden, he felt the dagger tug free of his leg and the wound heal itself. The Phoenix Feather hummed lightly in his grasp, the warmth of it making his palms sweat.

He tried to search for Morgana, but all he saw was a fresh cloud of black smoke as the sorceress dissipated into the wind, leaving him alone in the courtyard. Around him, the tower moaned, buckling. The exit was too far away. He'd never make it—

He tilted his head back, and locked his gaze on the still-circling wyvern above. The power of the Dragonlord once again filled his heart and mind.

"_Wyvern! __Yr wyf yn Emrys! Helpwch fi i hyn__—_"

The great Tower of Mitheras collapsed.

**† † †**

"MERLIN!"

Gwaine had to tackle Arthur from around the waist to the ground, and then drag him back to prevent him from returning to the falling tower. The prince struggled, arms pinned to his sides by Gwaine's.

"MERLIN! _NO!_"

His voice clawed his throat, even as the ancient structure finally crumbled to ruin, finally died, taking the servant with it.

A few moments later, the tower fell silent, and so did the Pendragon prince. He stilled in Gwaine's restraints, and stared emptily at the remains, breathing heavily.

The dust rising from the rubble was shrouded in gold from the rising sun. High above, the surviving wyvern swarmed, shrieking, before making their way east. One turned west, but Arthur paid no attention as Gwaine released him and he fell to his knees.

He was gone. The idiot was actually _gone_.

Arthur stood sluggishly, and started for the ruins. Gwaine followed. They both climbed the rubble, and less than half-heartedly rooted around for a body. There was nothing left, but they knew not what else to do. After a long search, they returned to Lancelot, who was slumped against a low wall, silent as the rising sun.

Suddenly, their hearts leaped in expectation. They heard the turning of rocks, and whirled around to see a form moving in the cloud of dust. Then someone shot those risen hearts with a crossbow as the form emerged from the cloud, and it wasn't Merlin.

"_When Darkness comes unto the world, beneath the shadow moon,  
><em>_The bane of fate shall dance with him, and bring about her doom.  
><em>_For he will call the Lord of Sky, the Luminance of the Sun,  
><em>_He shall triumph over Darkness, for the land of Albion_."

Arthur and Gwaine glanced bewildered at each other as a thin, insane man shuffled past them, wringing his hands, eyes wild. Again the man chanted his song, and wandered away into the dead city.

Once more, all sound dampened, and the servant never stepped from the clearing dust, grinning that goofy grin of his or tripping over his own feet. Nor will he ever again.

Arthur's fists clenched. "_Damn it_, Merlin!" he snapped, voice cracking. He kicked a rock, sending it flying through the air. His shoulders fell. "Damn it."

* * *

><p><strong>Rough Latin Translations:<br>****_Moenibus...putro_****: Walls...crumble****_.  
>Firmae tenent<em>****: Hold steady**

**Rough Welsh translation:  
><strong>**_Wyvern! Yr wyf yn Emrys! Helpwch— _****: Wyvern! I am Emrys! Help****_—_**


	16. Merlin Lost

**Lest we forget, warlock.**

* * *

><p>~16~ <span>Merlin Lost<span>

It was a tired, dampened, depleted company that hiked out of Mitheras that day. The sun held no warmth for them, no comfort. The world was the same as always, just...darker, less colourful – _empty_. Losing Merlin was like losing a brother, a lively, overly-cheerful little brother. It tore at their hearts and dragged their morale into the dirt.

Fortune permitted them a small mercy in allowing them to leave the city unhindered through a gap in the outer wall, and in returning Lancelot's horse. The beast had food and water still in the saddlebags. Merlin's loyal yet stubborn bay was nowhere to be found. Then fickle Fortune left with a snicker and a final flick of her spiked tail: the food in the bags was rancid, but not from heat or time. During the few minutes that the Knight Famine was free, every source of sustenance for days around had either fled, been killed, or went rotten, as the company would quickly find out.

The first night's rest was both a blessing and a cruelty. Finding a cozy tree grove for shelter, they lit a fire for warmth, but they had to split the few blankets they had amongst each other, for they only had enough for one person comfortably. Though they knew the sleep was going to be nightmare-free at last, it wasn't enough to make them rest. Their minds were in complete turmoil. Too much had occurred for them to just close their eyes, and even Lancelot slept little in his weakened state. Dawn was kissing the sky by the time they finally gave up, and set off.

As they trudged southwest towards home, Gwaine and Arthur worried for Lancelot. The poor knight was not boding well, and the lack of food wasn't helping. Then, after two days, Fortune finally returned and opened her door to their begging by providing them with a brace of rabbits. But Lancelot couldn't keep anything in his stomach. It took several more days of heaving whatever he ate before he was able to start holding things down.

There was something else, something that baffled the other two: when they were just out of range to hear him clearly, the knight was muttering something under his breath. If they approached him or asked what he said, he just glanced at them strangely, blinking, and claims to have said nothing. Lancelot was not a superstitious man, nor a religious one, but they figured that the bizarre, inaudible speech was just murmured prayers for a lost friend.

Gwaine and Arthur led the horse, with Lancelot tied to the saddle so he wouldn't fall. They were now a week's travel from Mitheras, but it could have been more if it wasn't for the current, painfully slow condition that they were in. They were approaching the ravine; it could be seen from the crest of a hill three miles distant.

They hadn't forgotten, of course, the inexplicable occurrences in the tower, including Arthur's wounds healing by themselves at an unnatural pace, the shield protecting them against Morgana's black fire, and the Archons being pulled back into their archways. They talked to each other about it, but fought inwardly with themselves to avoid believing that Merlin had been a sorcerer. It was impossible. There was no _way_ he could have been a sorcerer. If he was, why was Arthur still alive? Sorcerers were malicious beings, according to King Uther, yet the servant had been under the prince's employment for years. If Merlin had been a sorcerer, Arthur would have been, if not magicked dead, then poisoned, clubbed, stabbed, or strangled in his sleep by now, wouldn't he?

Wouldn't he?

Lancelot was the quietest of them, but the others took it as him simply being spent and too tired to debate.

It was after the latest baffling discussion that Arthur started to feel bad, _really_ bad. He had sensed the simmering unease over the past few days, but hadn't fully acknowledged it until then, when it suddenly ballooned. He hid it from his companions well, but as the internal struggle raged on, he became determined to find out what was provoking it so harshly, before the others noticed his growing silence periods and ill aura.

That evening, Gwaine made the fire and wrapped Lancelot in blankets to keep him warm while Arthur collected every water skin they possessed to refill. As he rooted through the saddlery of the chestnut horse, he found another skin at the bottom. It had a stained rag tied to it, and the prince vacantly removed it and put it into his pocket as he wandered towards the brook, some ten paces into the trees.

He fell to his knees and uncapped the first water skin. Before he dipped it into the icy creek, he caught a look at his reflection. He could barely believe what he saw. Pale skin, stringy hair, gaunt features. There were a few bruises, healing, but very discernible. His lips had cracked and split from drying out, the spawned beads of blood speckled around his mouth. His eyes were hollow and sunk into his head, and ringed in dark purple. A corpse was more pleasant to gaze upon.

Exhaustion had done this to him. Exhaustion, fatigue, and depression. Exhaustion from weeks of demanding travel, fatigue from the clutches of countless nightmares robbing him of sleep, and depression from the loss...

The haunted look was as worse as he felt. It made him angry.

He punched the reflection. Water spattered everywhere. Disregarding his drenched sleeve, he dropped the rest of the skins and got to his feet, but knew not what to do. He just stood there, grinding his teeth, fists clenched, muscles taunt.

Why was he like this? The Knights of the Apocalypse were banished. Morgana was gone. The threat on Camelot was no more. He should be rejoicing...with as much dignity his royal status would consider proper. After all, Gwaine was strong and well, Lancelot was still alive and kicking, and he himself was unharmed (he remembered the bruises), more or less. They only lost a servant, a lowly servant who was of no importance compared to a prince and his knights, right? Just a servant...

He relaxed, and snorted. Yeah, Merlin was _just_ a _servant_. Easily replaceable. Arthur could, would, swiftly find someone less insolent, more efficient, _intelligent_. After all, it was a great honour to serve a prince of Camelot. While Merlin had never treated that with any respect, there was no doubt that someone else most certainly will.

This reassurance calmed him, and he knelt once more to refill the water skins. As he did so, the rag fell from his pocket, the one that had been tied around a skin in the chestnut's saddle. He picked it up and realized that it wasn't a rag at all; it was Merlin's torn neckerchief, the one Lancelot had found in the ravine. They had neglected to give it back to him.

Arthur wanted to throw up. Instead, he tossed his head back and howled in anguish at the sky.

**† † †**

The Camelot search party was one of many scrutinizing the land, but the one that came across them was taken by complete surprise. The companions had hidden as the party trampled down the road, but once they saw the distinctive gold dragon on a red field insignia, they burst from the foliage, calling out greetings. Gwenevere was with them.

Arthur embraced the handmaid as she sobbed with relief, not caring who saw. The others knew of the prince's love for Gwen, and left them alone to talk.

"We've been so worried," she said into his chest, struggling to keep her voice strong. "You were gone so long, and the nightmares hadn't gotten better—"

"But they have now, right?" The sudden agitation in the prince's words was unmistakable, and he stiffened.

"Yes, yes, they're gone, finally gone." Arthur relaxed, and Gwen pulled away. "I don't know what you did, but we were travelling to find you – with anyone still in their right minds – when they suddenly stopped. Everyone slept for the whole day, even the watch."

"Gwenevere." Gwaine came up to them both and bowed politely to her. She smiled and gave him a friendly embrace.

"I'm glad you're okay," she said, but frowned. "But, Lancelot? What happened to him? And...where's Merlin?"

Arthur's eyes found Gwaine's for less than a heartbeat.

"Arthur?"

The prince heaved a breath. "Gwen, something's...happened..."

* * *

><p>It's a strange thing, losing a friend. Like a punch in the stomach when sleeping peacefully by the river. Like walking up stairs in the darkness, and expecting that one more step only it was gone. The foot comes crashing down so abruptly and startlingly, there is a long pause to recompose oneself. The effects vary from moment to moment, from day to day, from person to person.<p>

Gwen took it hard. She wept into Arthur's shirt, ignoring the filthiness, bloodstains and stench of sweat, and the prince held her close.

"You must tell me everything that happened—I don't _care_ if it's a long story. We have a long trip to Camelot." Gwen finally unlatched herself from the Pendragon and brushed away her tears. She was strong, in heart and mind. She would not let despair engulf her. That was why Arthur loved her.

"Yeah, a long trip." He heaved a deep breath, then put his arm around Gwen's shoulders and nodded at Gwaine. "Let's go home, shall we?"

**† † †**

He didn't remember flying being so bumpy and heart-jolting. He clung tightly as the exhausted wyvern tilted crazily in the air, struggling to remain in the slipstreams heading southwest. He prayed that the creature had enough strength for another mile or two, for the mountain wasn't far now.

As the destination drew ever closer, the wyvern started to squeak uneasily and turn in different directions. The rider kept it on course until they reached a wide stone ledge on the side of the mountain, where he guided the creature down to perch. When he dismounted, the wyvern squawked in terror before he could thank it and took off, suddenly having the strength and speed to vanish into the clouds.

He waited, standing at the edge, looking down upon the world. It was beautiful from there; forestland spreading further than the horizon, a great blue lake to the north, a field of tall grasses bowing in the breeze like ocean waves. He wanted to stare at it forever, and then Kilgharrah stepped to the edge beside him, towering high above.

"I was worried that you had forgotten me, young warlock."

Merlin smiled, but did not look up at the Great Dragon. "I could never forget you, old friend."

There were a few minutes of silence as they listened to the mountain wind, and then, "You came on a wyvern. Not the most dignifying form of transportation, I must say."

"I had little choice, I'm afraid," Merlin shrugged. "I also wasn't being particularly choosy at the time."

Kilgharrah chuckled deeply. "No, I should think not."

The warlock sat, legs dangling over the edge, and the dragon lay down. They watched the setting sun. "You have some explaining to do, Merlin. I sensed your presence from miles away. There is a new power you wield. It is alien to me, but very great. What have you been up to this time?"

From Merlin's pocket the Phoenix Feather emerged, dull and cold. "I didn't do it on purpose."

Again Kilgharrah laughed. "Sure you didn't. Because nothing _ever_ dramatic happens wherever you go." He snaked his head down and inspected the Feather for a moment. Merlin was gusted by a blast of air as the dragon snorted. "I should have known," he toned, lifting his head up again.

"You know it."

"No, actually. I know very little of it, as little as you. Probably less."

The warlock glanced up at him when the words grew solemn, but said nothing.

"You have the scent of something ancient, warlock, something I do not recognize. If you would be so kind as to explain..."

It was difficult for Merlin to imagine Kilgharrah's thoughts as he recited his tale, from the moment he found the Phoenix Feather beneath Camelot the previous year to the collapsing tower of Mitheras. The dragon remained still the whole time, even as the story drew to a close. Finally, his massive scaled chest expanded as he heaved a great breath.

"I have lived a thousand years, warlock, but even as a hatchling, the elders of my race knew little of the Ancient Kingdom. The Time of Prophecy was another name for the age; however, I am not sure why."

Merlin felt a stir in his stomach. He had neglected to speak of the insane man in the bowels of Mitheras Tower. What the prisoner had said, as though with prophetic words—

"But you are not interested in the Ancient Kingdom so much as that little feather in your hand, am I right?"

Merlin jumped. His thoughts had wandered astray. "Yes. Why did the things happen as they did? Arthur's cut healing, _Fąmem_ and _Mėtû_ returning to their dormant world, my own wounds vanishing...I don't understand."

"I am as in the dark as you, young warlock. I do have a theory, nonetheless." The dragon stood and stretched, rustling his wings as Merlin waited impatiently, eagerly. When Kilgharrah lay back down, he finally spoke again. "You said _you_ had picked up the Feather first under Camelot. You, not Morgana, though she acquired it later from you during a series of calamitous events. She had done a great many things with that Feather, none of them on the bright side of the moon. These included the liberation of this _Mėtû_ and his Night Mare. But _you_ were still the first to touch the Feather, not her. I assume that means that this channel tool recognizes you as its master." Merlin went to interrupt, but the dragon pressed on. "When you stole the Feather back from her, it reversed everything it had been used for against its will, and in reverse order that they had been committed. The final deed the witch had done with it was cut Arthur Pendragon's cheek. Was that not the first thing that was _un_done? And then, immediately after, Famine was forced back into his void. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

Merlin nodded numbly, blinking. "But my knife wounds! _They_ weren't caused by magic, but they were healed, too."

Kilgharrah chuckled once more. "Merlin, Merlin, is it not clear? Is it not astronomically obvious that the Feather's abilities, united with your own, cannot be overcome? You are the master, warlock. The Feather is under your charge, and it will keep you safe from any wound, magical or of man's steel.

"You can do wonders with that little thing, Merlin. It is yours to command and protect. Use it wisely."

"Use it." Merlin stared sightlessly at the tool, glowing gold in the setting sun. "I can't keep this." He looked up at Kilgharrah. "Morgana was proof that others could still control it. If it falls into the wrong hands..." he threw his arms to the sides wordlessly, then shook his head. "What do you think I should do with it?"

"The choice is yours, young warlock. It has always been yours and always will be. I'm sure that whatever choice you pick will be in the right." With that, the Great Dragon stood and spread his massive wings. He bounded from the edge and took flight. Merlin watched the majestic creature as he soared for the horizon.

Then he started in realization.

"_Wait!_ I need a ride home!"

* * *

><p><strong><em>Pfft!<em>**** Come on, guys, you didn't ****_really_**** think I was gonna give our favourite warlock the ****boot, did you? **

**No, it was obvious, I know x3**

**So this was the reason why I suggested that you read my 'Frostbitten' story before this one. The events of acquiring the Phoenix Feather took place in that tale. I hope the ending of this one wasn't cheezy or cheap because it seemed like I was desperate for an ending, if you get what I'm saying. It wasn't like it was the only possible resolution I could think of and so even though it was corny it was all I had. No, I meant for it to be this way.**

**One last chapter, mates.**


	17. There and Back Again

**December 2011: 22 Alerts, 14 Faves**

***Hoo* I'm tired. Are you tired? I'm tired. And I'm sure our friends in shining armour are tired, too. **

**Quite the adventure, don't you think? I believe it's time to sleep now. I'll see you next year ;)**

* * *

><p>~17~ <span>There and Back Again<span>

Camelot was a sorry sight. Though the fires had been extinguished and many buildings were well onto full reparation, it hurt Arthur's chest to see the city in such a way.

It was not a silent procession to the castle. The civilians of the Lower Town followed the party the whole way, screaming and cheering with delight and gratitude. The prince was pulling flower pedals from his hair as he trotted his new horse across the courtyard of the citadel, where he was met by composed stable hands ready to wait on him.

"Ah, it's good to see these old walls again," said Gwaine loftily, stretching saddle-aches from his legs. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a good long nap."

The rest of the search parties had already returned, and with them, other Knights of the Round Table.

"Flame powder," Leon said in disgruntlement by means of greeting. "Kids with stolen Oriental fire crackers. There _was_ no magic to the south. Just _kids_ fooling around!"

"For both cities?" asked Arthur, eyebrows raised.

Leon almost blushed. "Oh. No, actually, a civilian of Soltier claimed to have heard a banshee in the woods."

"...And? What was it?"

Leon shifted. "There was a woman living in a forest home. She...she was giving birth."

Arthur nearly told Leon, Percival, and Elyan his own adventurous tale – being immeasurably more exciting and perilous than theirs – but he held his tongue.

**† † †**

It was a servant he had never before seen in his life who waited on him that night. The man was stiff, precise, efficient – and really really _boring_. The castle already knew of the loss of Arthur's servant, who was like the prince's shadow, a tailing puppy, and this new man tried his best to cheer Arthur up with a few jokes ("Only if you see me fit to tell them, sire," he said monotonously.) The Pendragon smiled politely, yet tightly, when necessary and then ushered the man out as soon as possible, leaving all the candles lit and used dishes on the table but his head free of horrible punchlines.

He snuffed each candle slowly, methodically, thoughts in turmoil. He couldn't remember the last time he didn't hear Merlin's signature, excessively-jovial, "G'night, sire!" The prince would, every time, grunt indifferently into his pillow, already half asleep.

Always the same, every night. The cheerful well-wishing, then the cold, aloof reply. It made him with that he had once, just once, said 'good night' in return.

He would sleep all day tomorrow, he knew. It had been weeks since he'd slept in his own four-poster bed with its familiar royal red curtains and feather mattress. As the thought of a blissful, dreamless journey into the void of sleep teased his mind, he barely made it from the door, which he locked, to his destination under the covers. He managed, just, and sighed gratefully in the preheated blankets, granted by the ember-filled warming pan. He closed his eyes—

* * *

><p>"Rise and shine, sire!"<p>

—And then snapped them open.

Sunlight abruptly flooded the room as curtains were wrenched ajar, and he groaned as the brightness blinded him. He rolled onto his front, pulling the sheets over his head, but then frowned at the familiar voice.

"Come on, come on, you great oaf! Your father wants to speak with you, and you've got an angry Council to calm. There are also many people waiting to thank you in person, sire...many, _many_ people."

Arthur sat up, rubbed his eyes, and then focused on the young man pulling open a second set of curtains as he continued speaking.

"You've been asleep for two days; there is a lot to catch up on. I took it upon myself to prepare you an extra large breakfast."

The prince swung his legs off the bed and strode across the room, fists clenched, thunder-faced. The man's back was still to him, but he turned as Arthur approached.

"There are other less-than-pressing matters which—"

_Wham!_

Merlin was sent reeling, hand clutching his face. He tripped backwards over a chair and landed with a crash. Arthur, disregarding his throbbing fist, stomped over to him, grabbed him by the front collar and hauled him to his feet, before slamming him against the wardrobe.

"Where—have—you—_been?_" he roared, shaking the hapless servant vigorously with each word.

Merlin squirmed, trying vainly to break free. Arthur yelled something else at him that neither of them could make out, then abruptly shoved him away. Merlin smashed into the wardrobe. Grunting, he rubbed the new bump on the back of his head. Already he could feel swelling beneath his left eye from Arthur's first attack.

The prince stormed towards the table, ignoring the food and everything else in the room. Merlin watched curiously, saying nothing, but blinked when the prince suddenly and inexplicably dumped the water pitcher over his head.

"...Awake now?" the warlock asked, faintly worried. The Pendragon spun around, dripping.

"You're still here!"

Merlin raised his eyebrows. "Oh. Alright, I'll go then." He stepped towards the door.

"No!" Arthur had thrown a hand towel over his head to soak up the water, but then tried to stand between the servant and the exit. He walked into the table, winced, and lifted his hands. "Stay, please."

Merlin held his ground as the prince scrubbed the towel over his head. When he removed it, his hair stuck up everywhere in a mess. His expression was still incredulous. The prince strode purposefully towards him again.

The warlock cringed, expecting more pain – and then grunted when Arthur pulled him into a crushing embrace. The air whooshed from his lungs as the prince's arms constricted around his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

"Gee," he gasped, "I love you, too, Arthur."

The Pendragon hastily released him, but stood at arm's length. He shook his head, trying not to smile, overwhelmed by disbelief.

"I don't understand. How is this...How are you...Are you a...?" His features grew dark. "You have a _lot_ of explaining to do, Merlin."

The servant half-grimaced, half-smiled sheepishly.

**† † †**

"So, that all happened because you were the first to touch the Feather?"

They stood at the battlements overlooking the city. The sounds of reconstruction carried up to them on the wind.

"That's my...theory."

Arthur frowned. "And you really didn't do any of that? Heal my wound, banish the Archons, collapse the tower?"

"The tower was old. It did that, um, on its own," Merlin said lamely, and rolled his eyes at himself. Arthur seemed to buy it, though.

The prince shook his head and harrumphed. "And I actually thought that you were a sorcerer."

Merlin chuckled nervously. "Yeah, that _would_ be crazy." He clicked his tongue. "Really something."

A funny look passed across Arthur's face, but he let it by. "Did you, you know, try to use it again? The Feather?"

"...Maybe."

"And?"

The warlock shrugged. "Nothing." He didn't meet Arthur's gaze.

"Merlin, you still haven't told me how you escaped the tower. And your own wound! Don't tell me that Morgana missed."

"I think the Feather protected me. The wound healed itself, and then...I _just_ managed to escape back inside the tower and down the trapdoor into the dungeon. I was lucky. As for returning here, you weren't too difficult to follow." _Or you wouldn't have been, if I'd tried to_, he thought, remembering his stay with Kilgharrah to kill time until the search party returned to the city.

The pair stood in silence, leaning against the battlements, content with listening to Camelot repair itself. Merlin pulled in a deep breath, and memories flashed unbidden through his mind. The joy and confusion that his old friends expressed upon his unexpected appearance was priceless. Gwen had started to weep in happiness and squeezed him in half with a hug. Gaius the physician couldn't help but get teary-eyed as well. Gwaine pretended to be indifferent. Lancelot, despite Gaius's protests, forced himself to stand, and shook Merlin's hand vigorously with a pat on the shoulder. The warlock begged them all not to tell Arthur anything, and they knowingly obliged.

"I'm sorry I left you," the prince said suddenly, startling the warlock out of his reverie. His tone was grave, and he shook his head. "In the tower. If I had—"

"Arthur," Merlin interrupted, "there was _nothing_ you could have done. Besides, _I_ would have left _you_—" He grinned mischievously as the prince hit his shoulder.

The corner of Arthur's mouth lifted. "You're braver than you look, I must admit. You're also – almost – as _smart_ as you look. And that isn't very."

"Oh, gee, _that's_ fresh," said Merlin flatly, then grunted indignantly as the prince grappled him in a headlock and drove his knuckles into his skull.

"Lighten up, 'dollop-head!'"

"Ow! Okay okay, I will! _Leggo!_" The warlock lost his balance as Arthur released him, but just managed to catch himself before he fell over.

"You're such a prat," Merlin grumbled, rubbing his head.

"Well, at least I'm not an idiot."

The servant mumbled something else, but Arthur didn't catch the words. Again they fell silent for a spell.

"Where's the Feather now?" asked the Pendragon casually.

"Gone."

"...Care to tell where?"

"Nope."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "_Alll_-righty then."

As the sun reached its zenith, the duo turned to leave the battlements.

"Come," said Arthur. "I want you to do something with me."

They strolled along the walkway. When they reached the tower door where they would part ways, the prince said, "Meet me in the stables within the hour."

"Okay. Why?"

"Just do it." He suddenly remembered something. "Oh, and I meant to give this back." He pulled that something from his pocket. Merlin took it, and grimaced.

"_Awch_, it _stinks!_" he grunted, holding his lost, stained neckerchief at arm's length. "There's still Olitiau spit on it. What the hell am I supposed to do with _this?_"

"I don't know, it's yours. _You_ deal with it."

**† † †**

"Come on, Merlin! Keep up!"

The prince's words rang like _d___éjà___ vu_ in the warlock's ears. He had to curb his new, jittery, over-excited horse as she danced in a circle, chomping the bit, before he let her bolt down the road after Arthur's roan, Noble. The cream perlino flattened her ears and flew on her hooves with an encouraging kick from the rider.

Trees flashed past in green blurs as they charged along the path. Merlin bent low over the beast's neck and concentrated solely on speed, even forgetting to breathe as they raced with ridiculous haste. Arthur whooped with adrenaline as Noble hurtled a log. A few strides later, Merlin's perlino did the same, whinnying joyously.

It was then that Merlin realized how _wonderful_ he felt. He was alive, unhurt. But for a faithful horse, no friends were lost. Lancelot was making a swift recovery already, and was working hard to regain his former strength. Morgana was gone and her plot thwarted, and it could never be taken up again. The Phoenix Feather, too, was gone, but if the witch ever tried to pull off what she did the year before again with the unnatural winter, Merlin knew where to find it.

He could see it in his mind's eye: hidden deep within the forest in a tiny glade only he knew of, guarded by an undetectable shielding spell that used its own energy to sustain itself. Beside it is the boulder which is host to a legendary-sword-to-be called _Excalibur_—

"Heads up!"

There was a heartbeat's time to duck before the tree branch whooshed overhead, skimming above Merlin's shoulders.

"You're gonna die in one of these races, Merlin!" Arthur laughed, witnessing the warlock's close call.

"Well then at least my enemies won't get the satisfaction of killing me!" Merlin bellowed back, and smacked his horse's haunches. With an enthusiastic squeal, the beast put on a fresh burst of speed, and, to Arthur's amazement, bypassed Noble entirely.

"_That's the last time I ever give you one of my horses, Merlin!_" Arthur roared as the warlock laughed hilariously and left the prince in the dust.

**Ӎεӷȴįŋ**


End file.
